When the Detective and the Painter Met
by Void.Of.Memory
Summary: Basil is going to Holmes for help to find the portrait of Doiran he painted long ago. Many things ensue. Rated T, almost M, for two men, one of them drunk, by the Themes. Prologue of There Are No Coincidences. Rating changed so I don't get in trouble.
1. Chapter 1 In which an agreement is made

All Credit belongs to who it is due! Comments are good. Basil is more from the books, while Holmes is from both movie and books.

Basil

I do believe that a higher power was involved for the number of people that suggested Holmes to me. I had wanted to find what really happened to Dorian's portrait, so I had asked various people for advice. Almost all advised me to Mr. Holmes, praising him for his near perfect record on solving cases of all kinds, so I made up my mind and journeyed to Baker Street. That day had been sunny, but cheerless somehow; almost as if the sun was not shining as brightly. I had gotten lost, to the point where I had to ask direction, but eventually, I found the house by a plaque mounted on the bricks of the house, declaring it to be the estate of Dr. J. Watson and Mr. S. Holmes. The amount of people that stopped and muttered something or other about the inhabitans also assured me that I had found the correct address. I knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street, and it was opened by a middle-aged woman, presumably the land-lady.

'I am here for Mr. Holmes.' I informed her.

She gave me a queer look, but let me enter. 'About a case, I hope?' She said it like a question, but it sounded more like a statement. I nodded, and she showed me to the second floor.

'I'd watch myself, if I were you.' She muttered as she bustled up the stairs. I counted as I climbed. There were seventeen steps. 'He's in a bit of a rut: I dare not think of the mood he's in currently.'

I was at a loss for words. No one had mentioned the possibility of Holmes being mad.

She knock on the door. 'Mr. Holmes? There a-' she turned and looked at me.

'Basil Hallward.' I supplied.

'There's a Basil Hallward here inquiring about a case.'

There was a muffled reply. She nodded, shooing me in. She had fled downstairs before I had even opened the door.

I entered cautiously, not knowing what to expect. I would have gasped when I saw what exactly the room contained, but I could only cough. The whole room was a haze of smoke. It reminded me of Dorian's parties after all the well-to-do guests had left; the opium think in the air and booze flowing faster than water.

'You have a case for me?' A low voice came from out of the fog. I peered in as deeply as I could, but all I could manage to make out was a shadow, large and shapeless, beside what seemed to be a window. I moved closer.

'Yes, I do.'

'Well? What are you waiting for?'

'Pardon?' I asked nervously. Who was this strange man? Surly it couldn't be Sherlock Holmes, the great detective! Where was the mastermind who never slept until a case was solved? The brilliant man who's knowledge of everything let him catch every criminal?

'I need the facts! What are the fact?' His voice had risen, but it was still barely more than a whisper.

'My name is Basil Hallward-' I started.

'Yes yes, I know. What else?'

'I am looking for a painting. I painted a portrait for a friend, and he claims that it 'has to be protected'. I have not seen it in years, and I would like to know if he still has it.'

'Those are the basics.' the voice growled. 'I need facts!'

I cleared me throat. 'Ah, well, I painted the portrait coming up on twenty years, I do believe. The friend I gave it to was a man named Dorian Gray, you may have heard of him-'

'Who hasn't?' I heard from the shadows.

'He is Lord Kelso's grandson. His parents-'

'I am not writing a biography of the boy, therefore, do not tell me his history. What of the painting? When did you notice its absence? Was there any changes in his demeanour, any person he clashed with about the same time?'

'No.' I thought about it. 'Well, actually-'

'Sit down man, but mind the paint on your sleeves. Indian Blue is nearly impossible to wash off. '

I looked at my sleeves; they were covered in small swipes of blue paint. I looked at the hazy shape. 'That is remarkable.'

'Pray, continue.'

'Yes, well,' I continued, 'Right around the time my piece disappeared, Dorian had a falling out with his bride to be. Her name was Sybil Vane.'

'And how did she die?'

'Poison. Harry and I-'

'Harry?'

'Lord Henry Wotton.'

'Watson?' He called.

There was a sigh. 'Yes Holmes?'

'Would you be kind enough to fetch me the file on Lord Henry?'

'Why can't you do it Holmes?' the second man asked as he came out with a file.

'Can't you see Doctor? I have a previous engagement.'

The doctor sighed again and went back into the other room. The haze seemed to be thinning.

'Hm- yes- Lady Victoria. Hm hm- one child- hm. Ah yes. He is the one who not only frequents the opera, but also the lower class clubs and gin- houses.'

'Yes,' I muttered , 'That is Harry.'

'Continue.'

'Harry and I had gone to the theatre where Sybil played, but that night, she performed horrifically. Dorian assured us she was much better then that and must have fallen ill. I know he went down to speak with her afterwards, they spoke, but I have no knowledge as to the details. The next morning, Sybil was found dead in her chambers.'

'Hm. Interesting.' A long, sparse form lept from the shadow and statted to pace. 'So it was after that unfortunate incident that Dorian hid his portrait?'

'Yes, I believe so, and Dorian had not been his usual self ever since Sybil's death. Something changed in the boy. I fear it was Harry's advice afterall.'

'I will see to this case. Call on me Friday, and I will have-'

'Friday?' I interrupted, confused. 'Today is Friday.'

'What?' The pacing stopped. 'Watson; is this true?'

'Yes Holmes.' The doctor called back. 'You haven't moved from that chair in three days.'

'Now Watson, I thought I gave you specific intructions to-'

'I did Holmes.' Watson replied forcefully. 'But you said it was for an experiment.'

'That would be it.' Holmes murmured. The pacing started up again. 'Monday then. I will have something for you by Monday.'

'And your payment?' I asked nervously. I hopped it wouldn't be too steep. I blinked. The smoke was almost dissipated to the point where I could see Holmes. Watson must have opened a window in the other room.

'Pish posh man. When you get the money from the paintings you are waiting to dry, you may pay me. I have no need for money currently. Though, I could not paint the same night sky over and over; the boredom would drive me to madness. '

'The copies?' I cried, 'How did you know?'

'There are repeating patterns of blue, in different shades, apon your sleeves at different intervals. That tells me that you are painting the same thing over and over. You recently displayed an exhibit featuring London during the night, hence the blues. You also have a new jacket on, but your shoes and waistcoat are both worn and your birthday is nowhere in sight. Therefore, I deduced that you expect to come into money soon enough; a man does not buy a new jacket without getting a new waistcoat or shoes.'

'But how did you know I was waiting for them to dry?'

'You have come in the middle of the day; you had just finished painting and now only had to wait for the paint to dry before you could deliver them to the proprietor. If you hadn't finished, you would have come later; a painter does not leave his painting half finishes in fear he would lose his inspiration.'

I was left speechless. His powers were simply amazing. 'Well, Mr. Holmes, if you can see all of that through my jacket, I am confident you will find my painting.' I stood and went to the door. The smoke had cleared efficiently for me to see the room; and the man in it. The floor of the chambers were carpeted in clothes and jackets. There were shoes in the fireplace, and a box of files balanced on top of the clock. A set of test tubes were nesting in the firewood and the still- life on the table had a pipe sticking out of it.

That was the least intestine part, for now I could see Sherlock Holmes. I had never seen the man myself, but his appearance was the opposite to what I had expected. I had thought a man who burrows himself in solving crimes would be hideously ugly, or perhaps disfigured; for why else would one purposely involve themselves in crime? Mr. Holmes was nothing of the sort; he was tall and thin, with a regal face and bird- like nose, while his eyes were bright and calculative. His hairline was receding somewhat, but still held all of its black pigment. His fingers were long and spider-like, as were his toes; he wasn't wearing shoes. He reminded me on an eagle, and I could imagine him swooping down on criminals like a bird of pray. I even gave a small gasp as I took him in. His figure and face was such that I instinctively wanted to paint him, like I had Dorian.

'Mr. Hallward?'

I shook myself out of artist's headspace. 'Yes?'

'One last thing before you go.' He came closer to me. 'Does Mr. Gray know you are seeking help to find this painting?'

The question took me by surprise. 'I do no believe so, Mr. Holmes. I have asked for it many times, but he wouldn't think I had the tenacity to go ask you for your help.'

Holmes opened the door. 'Very good then Sir. Monday?'

'Monday.' I agreed, and walked swiftly out, the door clacking behind me.

'You're alright, then?' The landlady called.

'I followed her voice to a kitchen. 'Yes, thank you. He was rather... Placid.'

'Mr. Holmes does have his moods. A cup of tea before you go Mr. Hallward?'

'No, thank you. I have paintings waiting for me.' I winced even as I said that. Though his deductions were very simple once explained, it unearned me that he could tell so much by a few paint smears on the sleeve of my jacket. What could he have learned from the rest of my clothing?

Holmes

'Well, Watson, that Mr. Hallward had quite a tale, I must say.'

Watson come from he room, and sat down with a file in his chair.

'Indeed!' Watson muttered. 'But I noticed you didn't have a file on him. The only mention I could get was from Mr. Gray's file.'

'But of course, Mr. Hallward was the painter of the picture, he should be mentioned.'

'But that's not all he's mentioned in. Apparently, the man could have made a small fortune off of the sketches and drawings of Mr. Gray, but Hallward kept every single piece. Seems odd, doesn't it?'

'Yes...' I muttered. 'Perhaps there is more to this case then meets the eye.' I sat back down, but did not relight my pipe. 'I do not think I will be going out tonight Watson. I need to think.'

'Then how about diner with me?' The doctor asked.

I nodded. 'As long as it is somewhere Mr. Gray frequents.'

'Perfect!' He cried. 'I can get us reservations at The Marrion for seven thirty. It is mentions along side Gray's name in the file.'

'That would lovely. As for now, I would like a cup of tea and a quiet book.'

'Mary will there.' Watson said as he got up.

I stood as well. I felt my arms and legs protest as I thought of sitting in that chair any longer. 'A walk. I must go for a walk. How long was I in this chair for, did you say?'

'Three days. Holmes, did you hear what I said?'

'Yes; Mary will be there. What is the address on the file for Mr. Gray?'

Watson picked it up. 'Here, you read it.' He tossed me the file, and I pocketed it.

'Very well. I shall try and return before seven, but if I am not back, go to The Marrion without me; I will meet you there.'

I left before Watson could protest.

He most likely thought this walk was to get out of diner with Mary. I had nothing against the girl of course, but she did bore me. After I had solved her case, all the interesting qualities disappeared from her. I knew Watson didn't think so, though I could only take small doses of the girl's company. I wandered through the streets, a plan formulating in my head as I walked. The plan would involve lots of preparation, but when are my plans simple? I picked up a few items on the way; a small sack of barley, some cheese and three rats. I made my way to Mr. Gray's house and by the time I got to the correct address, it had begun to rain and was foggy. It certainly helped my cause for now, but the return to 221 wouldn't be pleasant.

I slipped between the house of Gray and his neighbor, making sure there was a window. I slid the window open and pushed the rats inside. I placed the barley in my shoes and the cheese in my pocket. I disguised myself using a splash of mud and the rain, hoping the fog would do the rest; it was vital the servants did not recognize me. I rung the bell and waited. A balding, stif man answered.

'Can I help you Sir?' He asked in a dry tone.

'Yes, you most positively can! But, the question that is more important is if I can help you! And, Sir, I can.'

'What is it that you want?' He interrupted sourly.

'You have rats Sir. I am here to get them out.'

'We do not have rats. Please leave.' He insisted.

'No no! ' I stopped him from pushing me off the steps, 'You can hear them! Listen!'

The butler stopped. Over the rain, a slight squeaking could be heard. I smiles. 'See? I'll get those buggers out for you, real quick and easy.'

The butler sniffed. 'How much?'

'This one's on the house mate! Just tell your friends about me!'

The butler stood aside, and I enter. The entrance was grand to be sure, but I didn't bother taking in any detail. I had one job to do right now, and it wasn't getting a look at the inside of the house. I found two rats near the window, and scooped them up. 'Found 'em!' I called and the butler came rushing in. 'Some stupid bloke left the window open, they musta come in from the rain.'

'Thank you, I will tell my friends, but now, would you kindly leave!' The butler growled.

'I'm going, I'm going.' I muttered, and left, grumbling the whole way. But as soon as the door shut, I smiled. Mr. Gray was going to have a rodent problem soon. The barley and cheese were no longer on my person, but two of the rats were. I put them near a crack in the panelling of Mr. Gray's house and went on my way. At the post office, I sent a telegram to every mover and frame maker in the near by area, and one to the Baker Street Irregulars. My work done, I return to 221. Watson had left, I had just missed him, but I donned a proper jacket and hailed a cab to the restaurant. The restaurant was nearly filled; how Watson had gotten a reservation, I'll never know. When I arrived at the table, the wine had been poured, but the food hadn't arrived.

'Holmes!' Watson smiled as I took my seats. 'Mary and I were beginning to take bets on how much longer you'd be.'

Mary smiled. 'Don't believe him Mr. Holmes. We've only been here for a few moments ourselves. But where ever were you?' She cried suddenly, 'You are all wet and you have mud on your face!'

I used a spoon to catch my reflection and wiped it off while I spoke. 'I was on a case, but I suppose a bit of dirt must have rubbed off on me while I was-' I stopped when I caught Watson's glance. 'Walking.' I finished.

'A case? How exciting!' Mary proclaimed. 'Were you catching the murder or the jewel thief tonight Mr. Holmes?'

I was about to answer here when a commotion by a table caught my eye. One of the men involved looked familiar. 'Excuse me.' I murmured and went over. I hid behind the large potted potentilla, and bend down like I was fixing my boots.

'Who are you to come in here? Audrey has not spoken in months and Harold refuses to see her!' A bodacious woman was yelling at a seated younger man. He looked young to be a boy even. There was no husband in sight, and the other patrons were beginning to notice.

'Oh calm down,' a second man stood, older than the first, and grasped her elbow. 'Harold was a poor excuse for a father, and I think you'll find that Audrey does speak, only not to you.'

The woman huffed and shook the man's hand off. 'Well, I never!'

'Sit down Lady Calforth. You are drawing attention to yourself.' the second man insisted quietly. 'I shan't think Harold would be pleased to find you here.'

The lady took a step away. 'The only reason he wouldn't be please,' She sniffed, 'Is because you're here.'

She bustled off, head high. The older man sat down with a sigh. 'That is the problem with married women now days, Dorian; they don't know when or how to make an argument. If they did, I'd think about spending time with my wife again. Don't marry Dorian. If you do, you will be doomed for a life with petty arguments and boring conversations.'

The boy laughed. 'With all the advice you give me Harry, it's a wonder I do anything at all.'

'But where would you be with out me?' Harry asked. 'No doubt still with Basil, being painted.'

'And wouldn't that be the life?' Dorian replies. They both laughed.

'Where is that portrait anyway?' Harry asked. 'Basil has been pining for it, but I wouldn't mind seeing it myself again, to compare it to you know.'

'It's locked away.' Dorian had suddenly bored and sullen. He toied with his glass. 'I never liked it anyway, but didn't want to hurt Basil's feeling. I loath looking at it.'

Lord Henry got the message. 'Have you something planed for your birthday this year? Your last party was spoken about for ages.'

Gray brightened. 'Yes, I believe I do. This year, I was thinking a masquerade ball.'

'Splendid!' Henry laughed 'that way I won't have to look at the ladies' faces.'

Buisness concluded, I stood and walked back to my table.

'What are you grinning about Holmes?' Watson demanded cheerfully. 'Come one man! Out with it.'

'I have a lead.' I muttered under my breath. 'I shall be attending a masquerade ball, whether Gray wants me to or not.'


	2. Chapter 2 In which someone is robbed

**Credit is owed to those who deserve it. Comments are nice!**

Basil

I awoke the next morning, later then usual. I had slept well- fallen asleep quickly, no waking up in the middle of the night and I felt completely rested for once. I wondered if it had to do with the things I had gotten done yesterday; the paintings had dried, and I, been paid. Using the money, I had given my land lord the rent, which had started to become overdue. And somehow most of all, hiring the greatest detective in London to locate my missing painting. That thought startled me. I don't know why I wanted that painting again so badly; I hadn't seen it in twenty years or so, so why did I want to see it again now? I thought of Monday, when Holmes would bring me news and suddenly, I was anxious. Maybe the thought of seeing my painting again, now that a hope had entered my mind that it could be found, was making my heart race. But I didn't really believe that. It more had to do with Holmes, I think. The man made me nervous some how; he seemed too unpredictable, too impulsive. I didn't like to stray from my routine, but Holmes probably didn't even have one. A light tap on my window drew my attention. It sounded like a small rock, but there was no one outside that might have thrown it. I slid the panes up and looked out; the outer latch had come loose and was tapping on the glass I got a bit of string and tied it back up, and while my head was out the window, I noticed how clear the sky was, and the brightness of the sun and decided go sit in the park. I grabbed some sheets of paper a piece of charcoal and a loaf of bread and made my way to the park. The sun heated the cobblestones and the air, but a cold breeze swept throughout London. I had not anticipated such cold, and so, I had not brought my jacket. I shivered a bit, but not so badly that I couldn't hold a pen. I sat on a bench, and sketched anything and everything. I tried my best, but nothing turn out the way I wished it could have. Certain lines were out of place, but for the life of me, I couldn't tell you which ones. Eventually, I threw down my chalk, burying my face in my hands. This is why I wanted my painting back, this is why I need to see it again: all inspiration, all my talent lies in that picture. If I could see it again, I would be reminded of what I am capable of. Perhaps even produce a decent work. I threw some crumbs of the beard to the birds as I ate. There was no point in attempting anything artistic now. I had to wait until Monday. My heart began to flutter in my chest. Monday and Holmes. The painting and the man; which one was I more anxious to see?

Sitting on the bench, I watched people go by. Most of the passer-bys were couples, ladies being escorted by their sweethearts, or a brother and sister. A lone man passed, and I stared at him. Finally I recognised him; it was Harry.

'Harry!' I called out.

He turned, and for a brief moment, he did not seem to know who I was. I came closer, and he smiled and nodded. 'Basil! I have not seen you in ages! Creating master pieces, I'd imagine.'

I sighed. 'It is not as you think. I have done little work in the past months.'

'But I recently saw a piece of yours in Lady Armithage's dining room.'

'But that was nearly a copy of a work I'd done last year. I am out of ideas.'

'Nonsense Basil! You have done many good works over the years.'

'But that is the heart of the problem Harry; I have not done any works recently that can be worth anything at all. All my good works were done years ago.'

Harry's smile twisted. ' Ah yes. Dorian's portrait. Whatever became of that?'

'I don't know.' I spat bitterly. 'He has told me he has lost it, yet he has also told me he has put it away, for he fears someone stealing it.'

Harry frowned. 'Why would he fear that?'

'I cannot fathom why. I only know that he'll never let me see it again.' I shook my head, and Harry grabbed my arm before I could leave.

'Basil, before I forget. Dorian's having a party for his birthday, three days from today, You should come.'

'Whatever for?'

'He is still your friend, Basil.'

I barked a laugh. 'A friend who can't even let me see my own work.' I shook my head. 'Perhaps I'll see you there Harry.' I walked off, leaving Harry with a bemused look on his face.

I left the park, leaving the sketches I had done, and went in search of shop where I could acquire a hot drink. A few small tea shops were open, so I went into one that seemed promising and took a table. A young girl came over.

'What will you be having Sir?' She asked politely.

'Ah, just the green tea please.'

'That will be 2£ please Sir.'

I paid her the money, and she sauntered off to fetch my drink. I had found one last scrap of paper in my pocket, and a slight remnant of charcoal, and let my mind choose what to draw. I lost all conscious thought; perhaps other patrons had been speaking with me, I had no perception of them anyway. The serving girl bringing me my tea startled me out of my day dream.

'Here you are Mister. And if I may say so,' she pointed to the small picture I had just drawn. 'That's very good Sir.'

I nodded, not really knowing as to what she was referring. I noticed the fresco I had done when I went to go take a sip of my drink. It was a near perfect rendition of Holmes pacing through the haze. I was amazed; it was the first good work I had done in months. Even the copies I had finished weren't was good as the original. There were many things wrong with the small sketch, to be sure, but the basic framework was well done. I almost didn't recognise my own own style. I put the small paper in my pocket, finished my tea and left. Thoughts were scampering about in my head, but I had nothing to put them to. I tried to calm headspace, but the walk didn't help, and the smell of my small studio did nothing. I rolled on to my bed and waited for my mind to settle. Whatever topic invaded my mind, I somehow connected to Holmes. Gritting my teeth, I tried to blank my thoughts, though I ended up falling sleep. I did not see nor notice the missing items.

Holmes

I was returning to 221 B from a long day of rat catching. The previous plan had been to have rats infest Mr. Gray's house and have the Baker Street Irregluars get the rats out, one of them looking for the painting. But, as it were, I had a much better chance to go into the house myself. The upcoming masquerade ball would be perfect. I had listened to gossip about Dorian's last party, and many didn't remember most of the evening, thought not from a lack of grandeur. The amounts of gin and rum ordered for the night had been staggering. To have the basics set for this second plan, I had to remove any hints to Mr. Gray that I was on to him, hence the rat catching. I hadn't got to go inside the Gray residence, but I had run about the alley trying the get the rats I had let loose the day before. For whatever reason, the rats hadn't entered Mr. Gray's house. I had waited until late to start, though and now it was close to midnight. My mind buzzed with the case; details brought to the front, every other thought pushed down and ignored. Watson wondered if there was something wrong with me during time such as this; I could have plans for later in the day, but if a case came, the plans were immediately forgotten, along with everything else.

I hurried up the street and saw a similar character coming down the opposite way I was traveling. He stopped at my gate and peered into the night.

'Holmes?' Mr. Hallward called out, 'Is that you?' he sounded anxious and panicky.

'Mr. Hallward!' I greeted back, 'It is indeed me. Going for a walk at this hour?'

He ran his hand through his hair. It was messy and wind swept, his clothes wrinkled, like he had just woken up. 'Ah, well, no. Not a walk, exactly. I'm, more-'

'Mr. Hallward,' I insisted sternly, 'Simple sentences work best.' I paused and peered closer at him through the dark. 'Sir, have you been robbed?'

He looked up at me, he eyes were wide and tired looking. They reflected the light of a near by torch; I had never seen such a colour, a shade of purple- brown, before. 'Yes, they took all my art supplies.'

His voice was shaking and desperate. 'If doesn't matter if you ever get my painting back now, Mr. Holmes! I can never paint again!'

'Why ever not? Did they rob you of your skill as well?' I laughed.

Now his voice was wild and angry. 'You do not understand Mr. Holmes. It has taken all my life to gather all those tools. I will never have the money to buy them back. If you return my picture to me, it will be of no use; I won't sell it, and I will have nothing to put my inspiration to paper, as it were. What would you do if someone took all of your chemistry test tubes, or your tools of your trade?'

I finally understood that Mr. Hallward was serious. He had nothing now; he could not get anymore money lest he paint, but he had nothing to paint with. 'Very well, Mr. Hallward. I will go with you to your studio and look for clues.' Hallward was now frozen in place, his mouth slightly open. 'Lead on!' I gestured impatiently.

'Look for clues?' he asked weakly.

'Yes, of course! You cannot expect to find the robbers if you don't find clues.' I paused, the reason for his confusing coming clear. 'Ah, I am to look for clues, am I not? That is why you were seeking me out.'

Hallward shut his eyes, his body tense. 'Yes, yes of course. You can come look for clues.'

There was no idle chatter between us as we walked. As we entered the main floor of his studio, I stopped.

'Have you a cleaning lady?' I asked.

My companion stopped as well. 'No, not that I've seen.'

'Your land lord is married then.'

'Widowed, why?'

I tapped my chin. 'This carpet has been cleaned recently.'

'What does that mean?'

I shook my head, and started climbing the stairs. Hallward followed and opened his door when we got to it. He seemed nervous, and as soon as the door opened, he lit a candle and began shuffling around the room, cleaning up all the mess.

'Stop!' I shouted.

He froze and looked at me.

'You'll ruin any chance for finding evidence.'

'Then should I put this back?' He asked, barley a whisper.

'No. Stay there. Do not move.'

Basil nodded. 'Do you want some tea?'

I didn't answer. I was too busy searching. All the sights, the small details, pounded into my brain.

Hair, on the floor under the table, black. Carpet, pale and clean, no dirt on floor. Absence of footprints near window, shutter open. Bed, unmade, bedding warm to touch, same black hair on pillow. Wall clean, dust free. Shoes neatly lines up in front of closet, closet contains only coats and clothes. Cupboards: cups, bowls, plates. Drawers: forks, knives, spoons, the usual. Small food items on counter. Marks on floor to indicate easel in corner, opposite window.

I turned to the artist. 'Nothing seems out of place.'

'Except all my tools and paints are gone.' He muttered.

A small detail caught my eye. Another door that can't be opened, nor seen, when the front door is opened. I walked up to the door, and with the difficulty associated with opening a door that has rusted shut, I wrenched it open to find an easel.

I sighed. 'Mr. Hallward, are you sure you do not have a housekeeper.'

He looked baffled. 'I do believe we don't Mr. Holmes. I would have think I would have been informed-'

He stopped as someone knocked on the door. I re-shut the closet and opened the front door. A small, mousey man entered, with wide eyes, still in his bed clothes was standing there, wringing his hands.

'Pardon me Sir,' he asked, 'Is Mr. Hallward in?'

I turned, and the small man entered. The man in question had put the items down and came closer.

'Mr. Cultenberger,' Basil put his hand on the man's shoulder. 'Is there a problem?'

'Well, I heard an awful racket, so I thought I'd come and check on you.'

'Everything is fine, thank you.' Hallward looked at me, but he seemed to concentrate on my chin. 'Ah, this is my land lord, Mr. Cultenberger. And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the-'

'Yes I know you!' The land lord smiled. 'I have all your cases that were written up in the paper saved!'

I nodded, and as he started to ask me questions, I interrupted. 'Mr. Cutlenberger, did you recently hire a cleaning lady?'

'Why yes I did, Sir!' he laughs. 'No point is asking how you know, no doubt you 'Deduced it'!'

'I did indeed Sir.' I murmured. 'But, if you'll excuse me, I must be going.'

'Going?' The artist sounded panicked. 'But, the robbers-'

'Robbers?' the land lord squeaked.

'Nothing to be concerned about,' Hallward reassured. 'You may return to your chambers.'

Culterberger nodded and shuffled off. The other man in the room just the door. 'Where are you going Holmes? You haven't solved the puzzle yet!' He demanded.

'I have indeed Mr. Hallward. The cleaning lady must have moved them into that closet when she fixed up your room.'

Suddenly, he looked mortified. 'Ah, I am so... Embarrassed. Pardon me Mr. Holmes, for bring you up here, especially so late. Might I get you a cup of tea or something to eat?'

I laughed. 'Oh, this is nothing Mr. Hallward. I have suffered through far worse. But, yes, I will take that cup of tea.'

He started to prepare the cup and we sat silently as the water boiled. I cannot imagine how Hallward was feeling about this whole ordeal.

'Mr. Hallward-' I started

He waved his hand 'Basil, please.'

I nodded. 'Basil. You should not feel bad about this. I have no qualms about helping a client-'

'It is not that I feel bad,' He winced, 'More that I feel awful. And embarrassed.'

I stood, and chuckled, looking out the still open window. I was tongue tied, something I had never experienced before. I had gone to the window for lack of anything to say. I could see Basil's reflection in the glass. He was pale and the black hair I had found on the floor must have been his. He was not as tall as I, but he wasn't short either. I took a calming breath and turned my gaze out the window once again. It seemed to help. I turned, hoping that the tea was ready. It was. Basil was standing right behind me, holding the cup out. We were so close, I could see the flecks of purple in his eyes, reflecting candle light.


	3. Chapter 3 In which a dream is dreamt

**Credit is given to those who made these stories so I could rip them off. Comments are great!**

**N/A: Sorry it's a short one. you'll see why next chapter.**

Basil

When Holmes turned around, and saw me standing so close, I could have sworn he stopped breathing. I hadn't meant to go so close, but I gravitated towards him, my feet pulling me closer without my command. His eyes were a burning liquid and wide with surprise. I handed him his tea without out a word, and he took it, never looking away from me. I turned away with a shuddering breath, my heart leaping in my chest.

'Would you like something to go with that?' I asked, my voice cracking at the end.

'If it won't trouble you.' It may have been my imagination, but Holmes' voice seem to be uneven as well. His exterior betrayed nothing though, as I handed him a small square of poundcake. His eyes were ice and his body was like stone, he even hadn't moved from in front of the window. A slight mist had started in the night sometime ago, and had grown into showers, the rain wetting the floors slightly. I leaned by him to shut the window and caught his scent; mint and an undefinable spice. I breathed deeply, and shut the window, reluctantly standing back. He took a step back, and handed me his now empty cup.

'I think I shall commence my journey home.' He muttered cautiously. 'Before the rain worsens.'

I nodded, exhausted now, and opened the door. 'Thank you for coming.'

He waved it off as he stepped out the door. 'Ah, I forgot to mention this, but Mr. Gray is having a party this Tuesday or so, is he not? Well, I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to investigate for clues, so I shall be there. Will you be?'

I'm sure it was my mind playing tricks on me, but Holmes almost sounded hopeful to my ears. I cleared my throat, and tried seem nonshalaunt. 'There is a possibility that I will attend, yes.'

Holmes nodded. 'Very good. I will be wearing a mask of course, and will come later in the evening, once there are less people to remember that I was there.'

I nodded. 'If you want Holmes,' I offered, 'I could go beforehand, and see if I couldn't get a hint or something of the sort out of Dorian. He will tell you much when he is drunk. I could say I was traveling for a few months, and would like to have one last look of my painting before I go.'

'That will work I think.' Holmes agreed. 'Once you talk to him, you could come tell me, I will be waiting outside, and then I will go in and find it, if it is there.'

'Good then. Shall I come to your appartements Monday still?' I hoped Holmes couldn't hear the hope and longing in my voice.

'No, I do not believe that will be required.' His voice was cold.

'Good night then, Mr. Holmes.' I tried not to let the disappointment seep into my voice, but I could tell that some was present.

'Goodnight Mr. Hallward.' He seemed to sigh as he said it.

He walked out and I clicked the door shut. I sunk against the wood, and slid to the floor. I was completely exhausted, somehow. It was as if Holmes drained all my energy. I wondered if the man somehow had; trying to concentrate on the task at hand while he was around was... Hard. He wove thoughts into mine, ones that I'd never have otherwise. Simply attempting to muster the strength to banish those desires was too much. I felt myself slipping away, a part of me disappearing. I pulled myself up and onto my bed and shut my eyes, hoping to pass to the unconscious world.

_I opened them to Holmes' study. How had I gotten here? Holmes was no- where to be seen, but I could hear him speaking to someone. I picked up a copy of The London Times, and the headline jumped out at me. It read ''Dead Artist Found in Lord's Home.'' _

_Underneath there was a picture. _

_A picture of me._

_I dropped the paper and scrambled back. How was I dead? I was standing in this room, I had picked up the paper. I turned and Holmes was entering from an unseen door. _

_'You see Watson, things are never as they seem.' He spoke at a louder then usual level, but I hadn't heard Watson's voice. He didn't notice me. _

_'Holmes.' I whispered. _

_He sat down at the table and picked up The Times. 'Basil Hallward.' He murmured, frowning. _

_'Holmes.' I shouted this time. _

_With a delicate shrug, Holmes put the paper down. 'Never heard of the fellow.' He finished, and stood, walking in my direction. He stopped in front of me, a foot away. He reach out, but something kept his hand from touching me. I reached out as well, but the same barrier prevented me from reaching him. _

_'What is this?' I whispered. _

_Holmes looked me dead in the eye. 'Death.' He said simply. _

I woke with a jolt, my skin clammy and my shirt soaked. I rolled over, and fell off my bed. I felt nauseous, and crawled over to a pail under the cupboards. I do not know how long I sat there, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It seemed to be about noon when I finally stood, ready to go out and find food. I grabbed my coat and shuffled out the door.

I lost all thoughts of the other people on the streets next to me as I wondered my way through a market. I stopped briefly for an apple, but the rest of the time I was lost in the chaos in my head. It was only someone put their hand on my shoulder did I stop. that's when I noticed it was pouring rain, my entire person soaked.

'Sir, you want to hear what I have to tell ye.' A Gypsy woman was the one with her hand on me, dirty and ragged, pipe between her lips.

' Go on, find someone else to bother.' I waved wearily, not wanting to deal with anyone. A wind swept through the alley, starting me shivering.

'The dream, it means somethin', aye it does.' She raised her eyebrow mysteriously.

My heartbeat quickened. 'What dream?' I feinted.

'That man is the Harold of your death Sir!' She cried suddenly, 'Ye best stay far from him.'

'Gypsy woman,'

'Flora.'

'Flora, who is the harold of my death? What man?'

But the fortune teller shook her head and took a step back. 'I want not to do with you more. Bad luck runs deep in you.'

And, before I could force any answer from her, she slipped off into the crowd, leaving me with more questions then answers, and the horrible feeling that her predication, and the dream, were meant to be trusted.

Holmes

Watson seemed to be in an absurdly good mood for the horrible state outdoors. The rain descended in sheets, thunder cracked while the sky was temporarily lit with flashed of lightening. He was even whistling as I sat down for the evening meal. Then the whistling stopped.

'Holmes,' He said suddenly, 'What if I were to move out?'

I stopped buttering my toast and looked at the doctor. He was staring at me silently, gaging my response.

'I must confess, I do not recall anything that I had done to offend you, my friend but if you feel-'

Watson burst out laughing. 'No Holmes!' He chuckled. 'You have done nothing. It is because...' He cringed, as if he knew what he was saying was ridiculous.

I picked up the paper and hid behind it. 'If it is because of Mary, then I consent. You seem quite taken with her Watson, not that you shouldn't be. Some might consider her beautiful.'

I could almost hear his jaw drop.

'Really, Watson, I don't know why you are surprised that I noticed. I have studied your comings and goings ever since we moved in together, and, you being a military man, they were quite regimented. But, after Miss Mary's case, you went out at times very different then what you usually did. And when you returned, you smelt of her perfume.'

'I don't know why I even bother.' Watson muttered. 'But you don't mind, do you? You will have to pay the rent on your own, and I will be moving in with her in a month or so.'

'Not at all, my friend, not at all. In fact, it'd be best for you to see her today.' I stood and looked out the window. 'But four weeks: is that not too soon? Have you even found a ring?'

Watson cleared his throat and sigh. 'No. And you have my checkbook besides.'

'Ah, well I best get that for you then.' I moved towards my chambers, but Watson called me back.

'Holmes, isn't that Mr. Hallward?' He exclaimed, 'Why the poor devil looks a mess!'

I flew back to the window and peered out. Indeed it was; Basil was standing on the steps, waiting for the door to be opened. I forced myself to walk slowly to the front door. My heart my hammering in my chest, and I narrowed my eyes; what was this? What had happened that I would react this way? I opened the door, and Basil entered. His clothes clung to his form, his face ghostly.

'Mr. Hallward, what ever's the matter?'

His eyes were faintly wild, and he seemed to be slightly out of breath. 'Mr. Holmes, please excuse me, I-' His voice faltered and I ushered him upstairs. Watson nodded to me as he passed by, out to see Mary, no doubt. I sat the man down and poured him a cup of brandy.

'Now speak man. What has gotten you in such a state?'

'I had such a dream Holmes.' The words that came from his mouth were vaguely slurred, like he was falling sleep. 'You had a copy of The Times that spoke of my death. And when I tries to-' He stopped, as if what he was going to say was blasphemous. 'To reach out to you, to grab the paper, I couldn't. I asked you what separated us, and you told me it was death.'

I blinked at the slighter man. He trembled as he retold his story, and I wanted to comfort him. He seemed genuinely terrified of this dream.

Suddenly, he shook his head and stood. 'Excuse me Holmes, I should not have come.'

I matched his movement. 'Why do you say that?'

'I am your client.' He stated simply, 'Not your friend.' He shrugged hopelessly. 'I- I have no one else though, as it were. Harry and Dorian, they would have nothing to do with this, and I simply had to tell someone.' All the energy left him, and he gave up trying to explain himself to me. He collapsed back into the chair.

'Basil!' I cried and rushed to him. 'Are you entirely well?'

'I had little sleep these past nights,' He smiled slightly. 'And little to eat. An artist's life, I fear.'

'Then rest here.' I offered. 'No one will disturb you, and I can have some food brought up.'

'That would be very kind of you, Mr. Holmes.' He made to stand again, but his legs gave out. 'Might I have some help? I can't stand.'

I pulled him up, one arm around my shoulder, and helped him to my bed. 'Sleep.' I instructed, and he lay down on top of my quilt, nodding sleepily. I threw another blanket over him then sat in the chair in the corner and waited, hands steepled in front of me. Soon, Basil's breathing regulated and became deeper. I reached to under the bed and brought out my violin case. I played softly as he slept, but after a while, Basil began to twitch in his sleep. I stopped playing, though it did nothing to help Basil. Then he was crying out, muttering things and trashing under the cover. I brushed his uncovered hand and found his skin cold and slick with sweat. The mutterings and thrashing stopped the moment I touched him, though he was still twitching slightly. I tried to move away, but the noise and movement came back. I sighed and resigned myself to lying next to the sleeping man, lightly touching his hand. I found a calm settle over me as I was next to this poor troubled artist. Somehow, I was content being next to this man.


	4. Chapter 4 In which emotions take over

**Credit to those who want it. Nah, just kidding. Credit to the authors of the stories. Comments make the chapters come out faster.**

**N/A: Another short one. They'll get longer.**

Basil

I woke slowly, confused as to where I was. There was heat radiating from my left, and I rolled over, seeking the warmth: my jacket was gone, and I shivered slightly. Though when I realized what the heat was, I froze. It was a man's body heat. He was laying on the bed, almost falling off the edge, his hand close enough to mine that he could have been holding it. I rubbed my hand through my hair, and tried to remember the previous night. My head ached slightly, but from the absence of nausea meant I hadn't had much to drink. I was notorious between Dorian and Harry for how little I could drink. I sat up in the bed slightly, and looked at the man. The small amount of light from the window was limiting my vision. I looked out the window, and the stars winkled back- it was about midnight or later. I peered down the street, but recognized nothing. I slipped off the bed, a simple blanket sliding to the floor. The man woke, and his hand clenched like it was looking for mine.

'Basil?' His voice was thick with confusion and sleep, but I knew who's it was. And then, I knew where I was, but I still could not recall last night.

'Holmes. What am I doing in your bed? And what.' I asked delicately as I was able, 'Are you doing there with me?'

He groaned and stretched. 'You were exhausted when you showed up here last night Basil. I let you sleep in my bed, but you had a nightmare, and it seemed you would only quiet if I was touching you.' the scene would have been nice, if Holmes hadn't sound so bemused. The memories came back as he came over and lay his hand on my shoulder. 'Are you alright now? You gave me quiet a scare earlier.'

I turned to the taller man. My heart was hammering, and my mind was in turmoil. I had no clue as to what I should do. 'But why Holmes? Why are you concerned for my well-being? We should not even be speaking right now; we should be in separate homes for goodness sake's!'

Holmes removed his hand. The silence was like a gun going off. 'I see.' His voice was cold again, and I shut my eyes. What had I just done? 'I was merely helping out a friend, though if you wish to stay client to me, I have no objections.'

He took a step back and clasped his hand behind his back. I felt my heart wrench.

'This is not what I meant.' I whispered. 'I was asking- you weren't- the questions were-.' I stopped. Holmes didn't appear to be listening anymore. Everything was silent for a moment. The wind blew in the room, and our clothes fluttered. My heart was still beating wildly in my chest, but it felt like it was trying to pull me to Holmes; what was going on with me? Was Holmes doing this? The answer struck me like a bolt of lightening. Yes, Holmes was doing this. He was driving my heart to madness, invading my thoughts and pulling me towards him. Suddenly, I was afraid. Would he notice that my heart was jumping out of my chest? I tried to calm down, but he was just so close, almost in reach. I didn't want to know what he would say of my feelings for him. No doubt he had nothing but contempt for anything to do with the heart, judging by the gossip I had heard. I reaches out, my hand almost grazing his back, but just as my fingers were brushing his jacket I forced my hand back. What was I doing? I couldn't let him know. He would either rip my heart out with his cold, snide remarks, or butcher my feelings with heartless comments. I saw no way to tell him and not end up in pain. I sighed and sat on the end of the bed.

'Holmes,' I tried pathetically, 'Please, let me stay for the night. In the morning we can go back to being nothing but client and professional again. We won't have to speak until the Ball, if that's what you want.'

'What I want?' the reply came. The voice sounded nothing like Holmes' usual clipped and precise tones. It was raw and painful to hear. All the emotions I was feeling seemed to be voiced in those three words. Like our desires were the same.

Holmes

When Basil woke me up, there was a moment of confusing as the fog tried to clear out of my mind. Basil spoke, and the fog lifted instantly. He demanded to know what he was doing in my bed. I smiled slightly; the situation was quite perplexing as it was; him waking next to me, fully dressed. I presented him with an abridged version of what had happened as I stretched, and went over to stand next to him.

'But why Holmes?' He asked quietly. 'Why are you concerned for my well-being? We should not even be speaking right now; we should be in separate homes for goodness sake's!'

It was like a blow to the face. Any reply I had formed in my head vanished. I was suddenly lost; what did I do? Then the questions sank in. Why were we together? Had fate thrown us in this room, to laugh at us? I did not believe in such things, so why were we here? Basil must not have felt the same calm as he lay next to me.

'I see.' I had no trouble putting anger and hurt into my voice, but I wasn't sure if Basil heard it. 'I was merely helping out a friend, though if you wish to stay client to me, I have no objections.'

I took a step away from him as if he was seeping poison. It was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

'This is not what I meant.' He whispered. 'I was asking- you weren't- the questions were-.' He didn't finish a single sentence he started, but I felt an underlaying emotion I couldn't name. My chest constricted, and I frowned. Regret, I thought suddenly. That was the emotion. Both Basil and I felt regret? The answer was a knife in my back; he hadn't wanted to say those things, I had taken them out of context, but I had responded as cruelly as I could in this situation. The wind blew into the room, and I shuddered. Basil meant so much to me that I felt regret for hurting him. It wasn't the same way Watson felt to me, though, I knew that much. I reflected on the few times Basil and I had been together, and found many similarities between my behavior and the way Watson had reacted when he had met Mary; my heart was thumping in my chest, my breath felt restricted, my skin was tingling. My mind knew what this meant, but would I accept it? Could I? I had spent all my life trying to find someone who could thaw my frozen heart. Was Basil really the one who could? I could have sworn I felt his fingers brush my back, but it was such a fleeting touch. He sighed and collapsed on the bed.

'Holmes,' He whispered, 'Please, let me stay for the night. In the morning we can go back to being nothing but client and professional again. We won't have to speak until the Ball, if that's what you want.'

'What I want?' The reply came from my throat before I could stop it. My body was finished being slave to my mind; it was ready to act on its own accord.

I sat down beside him, and forced myself to sit still. 'I want you.' I growled. I wasn't sure if he heard me; he seemed frozen in shock. Slowly, his face turned to mine, the small amount of light brightening the planes of his face.

'Me?' He whispered he sounded delighted.

I nodded. There was an awkward pause as neither of us moved. The artist frowned.

'What is it?' I murmured, and hesitantly pressed my hand against the side of his face. He leaned into it.

'You- want me?' He sounded so confused.

I laughed slightly. 'Yes.' I was breathless as the confession danced out of me. I was soaring now, lightened by the truth.

'Good.' he said simply. 'Because I cannot imagine what I would have done if you didn't.'

He placed his hand on mine, and breathed a sweet sigh. I took a breath as I tried to steady myself, but it only made things worse; the scent that was in a cloud around Basil seemed to be getting me drunk, in a way. Paint thinner and bergamot, I decided. I never would have thought those two odors would be so pleasing to me. I took another dizzying breath, which Basil seemed to doing as well. Then, I could taste the bergamot.


	5. Chapter 5 In which wishes are granted

**Credit to the maker of Holmes and Basil so I can put them in bed together. Comments rock!**

Basil

Without warning, and previous thought that I would do so, I grabbed Holmes by his shirt collar and pulled his mouth to mine. The hand that had been on my face twisted itself in my hair, keeping my lips on his. I was trapped, but I didn't mind. Holmes tastes like mint and cinnamon tobacco. I moved my mouth off his, and traveled down to his neck. He threw back his head and moaned. I dragged his lips to mine again, but this time, it was Holmes who did the kissing. We broke apart suddenly, as if it had been planned, and looked at eachother. The look in Holmes' eyes wasn't horrified like I had expected. His eyes were burning in the dark, a flame in the night. His hair was a mess and his chest was heaving. I could tell he was blushing, though I couldn't see it. I knew I looked the same. I bit my lip; was this wrong?

'To hell if it is.' Holmes hissed fiercely.

'My thoughts exactly.' I replied just as fierce, and pulled him back to me. He stopped his face an inch from mine, his eyes closed. Our breath mingled for a single moment, as if we both had doubts. Then, our mouths crushed against eachother. He caught my lower lips in his teeth and bit it slightly. I growled, and shoved him to standing. He looked at me startled, but I flung myself at him and trapped him between myself and the wall. I slid my hands over his shirt, up to his chest then, anchoring myself in his hair, I reached up and kissed him again, forcing his mouth open with my tongue. His placed his hands on my hips, and spun us around; now I was trapped. I hitched my legs around his waist, all the while exploring his mouth and his neck, with mine. I felt a tremor got through me as the shock of Holmes' icy hands ran up my chest, and I felt his body rumble as he chuckled. His pulled off my shirt, and threw it somewhere behind him. He lifted his lips of my ear and moved them down, leaving a streak of fire down my neck and across my collarbone. I became hyperaware of him now; every place that our skins touched, there was heat, like a fire, and the contact left a burn so intense I knew it had to be visible. My body arched into him, and a moan escaped me. He was making his way down my chest, around my nipples, and towards my hips. I grabbed the ends of his shirt and forces him out of the now sweat- streaked shirt. I hauled us closer, and our lips were together again. I simply couldn't get enough of the taste of Holmes. It was addicting, and I knew now nothing would smell, or taste, as good as he did right now. I broke off from him, completely out of breath, and Holmes pushed off the wall, and, intertwined, we fell against his desk, knocking everything off of it. Its corner was digging in the back of my thigh, but I felt nothing. The fire that streaked across my skin left me senseless to anything else. I wondered if Holmes felt it too, but judging by the frequent moans that he let loose, he did. I smiled against his mouth and tilted his head. I pressed my lips to the small hollow in at the base of his throat, and Holmes shuddered. I nipped the protruding bone and marveled at how thin Holmes really was. My artist's life had left little fat on me, but Holmes was far beyond that. I knew there was muscles there, as I could feel them as I glided my lips over his chest and abdomen. The strength that had to be contained in them..! I sighed as I ran my hands across the visible muscles over his stomach. Suddenly, two vices gripped my arms and threw me onto the bed. Then, a huge shadow descended.

Holmes

I tried to control myself as Basil placed his hands on my chest, then trailed them down to my abdomen. I could tell he was admiring my muscles, and I decided to give him a taste; I picked him up and pitched him onto the bed. For the moments I wasn't pressed against him, I shivered. He radiated a heat that I had never imagined possible, and everywhere he touched was smoldering.

I crossed over to the bed and lowered myself gently on top of him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing very quickly. A shiver passed through Basil's form, but he had a smile on his face.

'You alright?' I whispered against his ear.

He shivered as I spoke. 'Right as rain.'

'Cold?' I laughed softly.

'Quite the opposite.' He murmured back between nips on my neck, 'Are you?'

I chuckled as I resumed our kissing- if only he knew. I felt like there was a fire burning inside me, and I knew any minuet now the fire would spread to the outside.

'Warm enough to be without these?' He asked seductively, grabbing my belt.

'Most definitely. And yourself?'

He answered by undoing my belt and sliding my trousers off. My heart stopped as his hand brushed my inner tight. I fumbled with his belt, my concentration elsewhere: Basil was tracing designs on my lower back with his finger. I couldn't undo it though, and after a moment, I gave up.

'God damn belts.' I growled and Basil laughed. His laugh was musical, and for a moment I was lost in it. Then, his hand strayed onto my bottox. My body, on its own accord, bucked against the artist, and he groaned in pleasure. He grabbed either side of my face and kissed it more passionately then ever. Any bars I had against what was happening were destroyed. I soared into a new terrain of ecstasy, and Basil flew with me. We were both completely lost in each other, and though our bodies were ready for the next step, I could tell we were both exhausted. I lifted my hands from where they had been on Basil's upper thighs- when had I moved them there?- and put them on his chest. Our kisses, though none the less passionate, descended in magnitude until they were nothing more then light touches with our lips.

'Ah Holmes!' Basil sighed, his voice hoarse, still underneath my body, 'I have never-' He stopped, and smiled against my lips. 'Have you?'

I shook my head slightly, smiling the same as him. 'Never. I had rather removed myself from such things.'

'Thank God you hadn't. I fear I would have died of you hadn't- responded- the way you did.' He was smiling again. 'Thank you for this.'

'It was my pleasure.' There was silence except for our still strained breathing. Then we both burst out laughing. It was quiet laughing, as we knew we couldn't have Watson come in as we were, but somehow it made the situation seem all the more funny. Once we managed to control the laughter, we turned on our sides, and both fell asleep. When we woke in the morning, we were still holding hands.


	6. Chapter 6 In which a dress is worn

**Credit to the authors. Comments make me happy.**

Basil

'Well,' Holmes smiled, his eyes twinkling, 'That was an adventure wasn't it?'

We were sitting at the table in his den the next morning. I wasn't sure as to what the detective was referring to- the previous night, or this morning.

I looked about the room, keeping my smile in check. There were clothes strewn about the room, the night table in Holmes' room was over turned, its contents spilled on the room like it had received a grievous wound, a wig lay hidden beneath yesterday's paper, the coat rack was laying on the floor, and a breeze entering from two open windows, had blown sheets of paper around the room.

'Well,' I mused finally, 'If anything, we seemed to have fooled Watson. We certainly made enough of a mess.'

Holmes laughed deeply. I admired the way Holmes laughed: it came was low and powerful. It was the way I imagined a bear laughed. 'We did, didn't we?' He took another look around, and picked up a chair and set it up-right again. 'I suppose I'd better get to work then.'

The taller man stood gracefully, and began to set things in their proper place- the wig under the love seat, the papers back in the files in the liquor cabinet.

'Wait Holmes,' I stood up as well, though it was no where near as elegant. 'Let me help. Heavens knows I made just as much of a mess as you.'

He nodded, but appraised me with a queer glint in his eye.'

'What?' I demanded.'

'You can help,' He started,'Though I'd appreciate it if you removed that dress.'

That morning, when we had woken, we had both been a slight bit embarrassed. Holmes had avoided looking me in the eye, and I avoided looking at him at all. Eventually though, as we had started to get dressed, I had commented on a scar on Holmes' back. He had replied that it was a souvenir from particular dangerous case he had undertook a few months back. We had started talking about it, until we both were as comfortable around each other as we had been before.

Then, I had make a joke about something the detective had said earlier and we both started to laugh, loudly enough that someone heard us, for there was a knock on the door.

'Holmes?' Watson had called from behind the door. 'Are you in there with someone?'

I had clamped my mouth shut, and Holmes crept closer to the door. 'No Watson, it is just I.' He had done his best to sound convincing. 'Why would you think that?'

There had been a pause as the door handle rattled slightly. 'Then was is the door locked?' Watson had asked.

'Is it?' Holmes had exclaimed. He then motioned for me to climb out the window. 'How odd; I have no recollection of locking it.'

I had climbed out the window, and Holmes showed me how to hold on to the wood siding, and pointed to the window in the den. He had shut the window quietly and walked over to the door and unlocked it.

'There now,' I had heard him say. 'Though I must confess Watson, you have never been so interested in my chambers.'

Watson must have entered, for I heard two sets of steps. 'I could have sworn I heard someone else here earlier and last night.' He had muttered. I had gritted my teeth and did my best no to let go or make a noise.

'No, there's no one.' Holmes had insisted. 'But where are you going doctor? It is you day off, if I'm not mistaken.' I had almost reached the second window.

The doctor must have nodded. 'Indeed. I'm going to see Mary, and won't be back until late.'

I had heard Holmes make an excuse, and he came to the den and opened my window. 'Now get into some thing different and put on that wig. When you're done, knock on the door like you came for my services.' He had hissed lowly.

I had made sure to follow his directions as Holmes kept Watson talking. There had been a tense moment while I had been doing my best to force myself into the first garment I had found, I had slammed my foot into the rather large and heavy cabinet. I had managed not to swear, but reflex tears gathered in my eyes.

Once I had finished dressing, I exited the rooms and knocked on the front door. Watson came and answered it rather quickly, though I had not thought of any excuse to knock on the door. I was inspired by one of the tears that slid down my cheek.

'Oh Mr. Holmes.' I had sobbed, pushing past Watson, making sure my head was kept down, running into Holmes' arms. His body had been warm and his arms wrapped around me without thinking.

The detective had been surprised to say the least. I'd imagine he hadn't expected me to put on a dress, a blond wig and have real tears.

'My dear woman!' He had cried as he held me at arms' length from his body, 'What ever is the matter?'

'Ah, well I best be off Holmes.' Watson had an odd expression on his face as Holmes guided me into a chair, 'Mary is waiting.'

Holmes waved him out as I sobbed. The door had shut with a click, and my sobs had turned to laughter.

'Well done Basil!' Holmes had complimented. 'I do believe we may have fooled the doctor.'

I had curtsied to Holmes' laughter. We had waited for a spell to see if Watson would return, then I had taken off the wig and put it on the table. I had started to remove the dress, and we had begin to relax when we hears the doctor's voice. I had froze, but Holmes threw a coat and the wig at me and had pointed to the chair. I had slung myself down, with Holmes in the one across from me, saying

'So when was the last time you saw Mr. Angel?' just as Watson walked in.

'Watson!' The detective had exclaimed. 'What are you doing back so early?'

'Forgot my hat.' The doctor had replied cheerfully. I had buried my face in my hands as the doctor crossed in front of me. 'Don't let me interrupt you Holmes, carry on!'

'Ah yes,' I had mumbled as femininely as I could. 'Well, I last saw him two months ago, when my father had been out of the city for business.'

When Watson left for a second time, and I had breathed a sigh of relief. If the doctor had noticed the coat, he had made to sign of it.

'There, now he's gone.' Holmes had nodded, and I removed the wig again and threw the coat on the chair.

'Is this is what's involved with being with you Holmes?' I had demanded, 'If so I'm afraid I'll have to change my mind.'

Holmes had taken at step towards me. 'Then allow me to change to it back.' He had murmured as he brushed his hand along my jaw, rough with three day's stubble, and had slowly pressed his lips against mine.

'Holmes!' A loud voice had complained, splitting us apart. It was the doctor again. Holmes had shoved into his room, and I fell into his night table, knocking out the drawers. He then hid the wig beneath a copy of the Times, though he knocked over a coat stand in his haste. I had peeled off the dress and barely managed to button my jacket as Watson came waltzing in.

'I just remember that you have my check books Holmes, so if you'd be so kind-' He then stopped and had looked about the room. 'Where did that woman go? The one in the blue dress?'

'She became quite unconsolable and I sent her down to Mrs. Hudson for some tea.' Holmes had lied smoothly, fetching his room mate's request.

Watson had nodded, then caught sight of me. 'And when did Mr. Hallward arrive?'

'Just before you did.' I had put in. 'We must have just barely missed each other on the way up.'

Watson had nodded slowly, then, receiving his book, had left swiftly. The two of us had held our breath until we had heard the front door slam. The noise had let us relax, and we had collapsed into the chairs, grinning like fools.

Holmes

I grinned again as I thought of how we had pulled the wool over the eyes of the doctor. Basil had done his part brilliantly, an actor in the making. Though we were still cleaning up the mess, it had been an amusing morning. I picked up the dress Basil had flung onto the floor as we had started fixing the room back up.

'Where had you found this, my good man?' I asked of my companion. He was in my bedroom, putting my night table back into place. He looked up at the sound of my voice, and smiled as we made eye contact. My heart began to beat faster from the mere sight of him.

'I found it under the love seat. I had see it while I was climbing in through the window.' He explained.

He picked up the things that had been knocked off my desk the night before. He cleared his throat. 'Holmes.' I winced slightly. I knew where this was heading. I entered my room and helped him, the den finished.

'Holmes,' He started again, 'What happened last night-'

'Do not tell me it was a mistake Basil.' I pleaded. 'The way you-'

He put his hand on my shoulder. 'I was going to ask you the same thing.' He said gently. 'But I think I know your answer now.'

I nodded slightly stunned. This man threw down my guard. The color of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the lines of his body, they all distracted me. If a client came in now, I doubt I'd be able to tell you anything about them.

'But Holmes, please understand.' Basil pleaded, 'I've never done anything like this before. I have not the first clue about... Well, anything really.'

'Don't fret, Basil.' I winked, 'I'm sure we'll figure it out as we go about it.'

The look that appeared on the artist's face at that statement made me laugh. His eyes widen and his mouth opened then closed twice. I chuckled again and set the last pot of grease paint back in the drawer. The paint reminded me, and I tapped two fingers on my chin, thinking.

'What's the date today?' I asked.

'It's a Sunday, though I am not positive as to the date.'

'Two days until the Gray's party.' I murmured. I stood and dusted off the knees of my trousers. 'Well, we best be off.'

'For what?' Basil asked as he scrambles to his feet.

'We can hardly have the doctor come in while we're here; he'll get suspicious. No, we must be out when he returns. And we must get you a new suits, as it were.'

Basil looked down at his rather threadbare shirt and pants. 'What's wrong with this one?' He demanded.

'Basil, how long have you had that? No, I simply won't allow you to go to that party with what you're wearing.'

Basil clenched his fist and a blood rose in his cheeks. 'The truth is Holmes, I won't be able to afford any thing new at the moment. I had to pay my landlord, and some of my paints are running low.'

I surprised him by laughing again. 'Did you really think I would bring you to the tailor knowing you couldn't afford anything? No, I will get it for you.'

If it was possible, Basil somehow turned even redder, and started to sputter.

'Holmes- no, you can't. I- it does't matter, really.'

'I insist.' I said simply. 'I have a favor with a tailor on Dathford, and he will be willing to make us both a new set.'

Basil shut his mouth and nodded.

'Besides,' I murmured, kissing him softly on his forehead, 'It will let us spend some time together.'

We left my rooms, leaving the chambers spotless. We had some lunch before we left, Basil going through an entire plate of sandwiches by himself. I remarked on his appetite, but he replied that be hadn't eaten from the day before, re-telling me what had happened the day before. I didn't tell him that I had also had received a rather strange encounter with a gypsy.

Our walk down to the tailor was uneventful, by the standards of the previous days. I told Basil about some of my cases, and he spoke about Dorian, Harry and his paintings. I let Basil do most of the talking; I found myself rather fancying his voice.

The tailor, a Mr. Grimson, had hired me for a case the month before last, and, instead of paying me, had promised me one of his finest suits. I hoped to exchange the favor now, though a bit of lying would have to be done on my part.

'Mr. Grimson,' I greeted the thin, excitedable man as we entered. 'This is my cousin, Basil. I have come for my favor.'

'Ah yes!' He nodded as he shook hands with Basil. 'Then, you Sir,' He instructed, point at me, 'Can sit in one ofthose chairs, and your cousin may get himself changed. There are clothes behind that curtain you may wear.'

Basil, though he seemed a little dazed, did as he was told, and came out a few moments later wearing a sleeveless white shirt and plain breeches. I concentrated on the wall behind him as Mr. Grimson measured Basil. The tailor muttered the measurements to himself, and Basil and I kept quiet.

'There!' The tailor stepped back. 'You may go pick out a material from the back for your jacket and waistcoat. The best quality fabric will be on the third and fourth row. Choose whatever you wish.'

Basil left the room, and I went to change. I saw Basil's shirt hanging on the wall, and I lifted the fabric to my face and breathed in his scent. Mortified, I dropped the fabric and shook my head; this man was loosening my control of myself.

After my measurements had been taken, I followed Basil's steps into the back and found him holding two different scraps of a dark material.

'Have you decided?' I asked.

He jumped slightly as I walked up, but shook his head. 'I have narrowed it down to these two, but I can't make myself come to a decision.'

I took a look at the two pieces. One was deep mahogany, with a red undertone. The other was a dark blue, the color of the midnight sky.

'The mahogany.' I gestured. 'It will go with your eyes.'

Basil agreed. 'What about you Holmes?'

I gave all the bolts of material a once-over, and pointed to a black pinstripe. 'That one.'

Basil shook his head and jerked his head to one a slight ways down. 'That's the one you should get. The black with make you seem hollow.'

I sighed, but took a scrap of the fabric. It was a forest green, though it was green enough to almost be black. A yellow silk at the very back of the room caught my eye. 'What's this?' I pulled it out and Basil snorted.

'Please tell me you don't intend to make your jacket of of that.' He muttered.

'Don't be absurd.' I snapped. 'It would make a lovely scarf though. Perhaps I can convince Mr. Crimson to fashion a scarf out of this for you.'

Basil pressed his lips against mine; I hadn't noticed we were standing so close, or perhaps I had forced myself not to think about it. If I had thought about it, I don't know what I would have done, both of us wearing much less then we usually would.

'Thank you Holmes.' He whispered, and kissed me again.

'For what?' I inquired, puzzled.

'For this, for everything.' Now, his hand was around my waist, and one of mine was on his neck. We broke apart when a light tapping of shoes signaled the coming of our tailor.

'Have you decided?' He asked, and we held out our respective pieces. 'Oh, very good choices Sir! I will have them done by earlier Tuesday.'

'Very well.' I nodded, then, remembering the scarf, added, 'Could you make a scarf from some of this yellow silk?'

The tailor agreed he would, and, cutting some of it off the bolt, red flashed in front of my eyes, and I turned, sickened.

Mr. Crimson left to start our clothes, but Basil gripped my arm. 'What is it Holmes?'

I shook my head, not wanting to tell him, that for the briefest instant, the yellow silk was spotted and soaked in blood.


	7. Chapter 7 In which Holmes is drunk

**Credit to no one! Baw hahaha! Just kidding. Credit to the makers of the books/ movies. Comment are helpful.**

Basil

I had seen Holmes on drugs, I had seen Holmes while on a case, I had seen Holmes while not on a case, and even seen, well, more felt, Holmes naked. But, I hadn't seen Holmes drunk. Until now.

'You know Basil-' He slurred, his finger waving as he tried to point in my direction, 'I think I'm good and drunk.'

I nodded patiently and sighed. After the visit to the tailor, we had gone out for an early evening meal, then, after a walk in the park, Holmes had insisted we stop for a drink at The Oaken Sword Pub. Holmes had downed three scotch before we had even sat down; he had slipped behind the bar and poured the drinks for himself. I tried to slow him down, but the moment there was a bottle and glasses on the table, he started downing drink after drink like he needed them to live.

'Really, Holmes.' I insisted quietly. 'Please, stop. You'll never make it home like this.'

'That's what you're here for.' He grinned sloppily, and threw another one back.

'I'm here to make sure you don't end up in The Thames?' I laughed, feeling a knife drive into my chest. Was this all I was to him?

'Well, yes. Rather, you are here to guide me back to my rooms, and, if I am passed out, you may have your way with me.'

'Holmes!' I hissed, rather embarrassed, not at all comforted. 'Quiet! The bartender is coming.'

'I'll handle this.' He swaggered. He stood, as graceful as ever, and looked the barman right in the eye.

'I fink 'ou've 'ah enough.' The barman picked up the empty glasses and bottles and whipped down the table. ''Ou'd best be on ya way.'

'Oh contraire!' Holmes smiled, the three bottles never showing. 'I'd like another bottle of whatever this is.' He tapped one of the empties and brought out a few coins. 'I do believe that will cover everything.'

The bartender eyed Holmes suspiciously, and fingered the coins. Finally, to my relief, he shook his head.

'I want 'ou out. Ou'll bring in da bobbies th' way y'are.'

'Thank you Sir, but I give you my word, I would do no such thing.' For the amount Holmes had downed, his speech was surprisingly articulate.

'No, he's right Holmes' I tugged on the detective's arm, 'Let's go.' He succumbed to my insistence, though not completely willingly.

'I don't know why I have to leave!' He protested loudly as we walked out, drawing the attention of the other patrons, 'I have had but one drink!'

As if his body was contradicting his words, he tripped over his own feet, and landed square in the lap of a large sailor- looking man. The sailor dropped his cup in surprise, spilling it, and stood, shoving Holmes to the floor.

'Now look what you've done!' The large man shouted. 'You're paying for that!'

'I shall do nothing of the sort.' Holmes shouted to be heard from the floor. He was lying face down in the straw, and I rushed over to help him. 'No, leave me Basil. I would rather eat the floor then look at the man's face.'

I scrambled back as the sailor picked Holmes up by the collar and shook him. 'What'd you say?' He demanded.

'I said I'd rather eat the floor.' Holmes replied in a gentlemanly fashion. 'Though I must say, you aren't as bad up close. Is that how you got your wife?'

I winced, but the sailor just blinked. Almost all of the rest of the patrons in the bar were watching now. The man holding Holmes didn't understand the insult by the look on his face, but he shook Holmes again anyway. 'What's that suppose to mean?' He roared.

'It means,' Holmes explained as if the sailor was slow, 'That you wife must not look too different from you. Your sister perhaps?'

The bar went dead silent. The only sound was the the man's brain working furiously to try and figure out what Holmes had said. One of his mates leaned over the table and whispered into the sailor's ear and Holmes' smile grew pleasantly. The sailor's eyes grew wide as he understood then narrowed as he looked down at Holmes. Holmes looked up at him and sealed his fate this his next statement.

'Now please help me out on this one. Are you upset because I'm right or because you're jealous I thought of it first?'

I shut my eyes and I'm sure the resulting sound would have been heard from the street. The sailor sat back down with his mates and ordered up another round, nursing his knuckles. Holmes had crumpled to the floor, and this time he had no witty replies as I pulled him up. It may have been because he was no longer conscious. I wrapped one of his arms around my shoulder, cursing myself for not stopping the sailor sooner, and dragged him from the pub. Someone spat in our direction.

Out on the street, I had hoped that the cool air would wake the detective, but Holmes slumped to the ground when I dropped him.

'Well done Holmes.' I muttered, hauling him back onto his feet. 'A masterful job.'

I kept up the sarcastic insults for a few streets, but when I stopped, rather lost by the Thames, I wondered why I was mocking him so. I was afraid, I realized. I was afraid and angry that Holmes had put himself in such danger. All the talking we had done earlier had made me rather hopeful that what we had would last. And if Holmes was provoking sailors left right and center, he would be dead before the week was out. I dropped the detective and admired his profile in the light of the lamps. He wasn't classically handsome, but his eye were like liquid fire and the small, deft movements his hands made were mesmerizing. I touched his jaw, the one he hadn't gotten punched in, and felt the heat from his face and the stubble that was beginning to grow. I smiled sadly. I wondered when he would come to his senses and wonder what exactly he was doing with me. I was a poor painter while he was a well off consulting detective. I knew he had connections with some higher- ups from his cases; he certainly had his pick of people.

'Oh Holmes,' I murmured, wiping the tears that had suddenly sprung to my eyes. 'Why me?'

'Because I don't want any one else.' His voice came floating up. 'Because you're you. Should I go on?'

Holmes

Basil seemed to have a momentary lapse of confidence, and even though I was more drunk then a pirate at noon, I understood the seriousness of the situation. Basil's pale face stood out from the black of the night, his eyes swimming with tears. Usually, I found such displays of emotion disgusting in men, but with Basil, I felt- anger. Anger that some one would do this to him. That I would do this to him. 'I will make you see that you are special, that you are worthy.' I thought fiercely. 'Starting with this.'

I reach up and pulled him down, crushing his lips against mine. The lip that had been split by the sailor's punch reopened, bleeding slightly. My injuries burned slightly, but a cold London breeze swept through the street which helped, though Basil shivered. I'm not entirely sure it had to do with the wind. I forced his lips apart with mine and pressed my tongue into his mouth. He leaned more deeply against me, and I felt his hands warp themselves in my hair. The cobblestones were rough against my back; my shirt had slid up, something Basil had to do with no doubt. I tried to stand, but Basil was pushing me, forcing me to stay down. The awkward angle I was sitting up, leaning back on one of my elbows and Basil was on his knees, straddling my waist, and the slick street was helping Basil push me farther and father back towards the Thames. Every kiss he gave rocked me back towards the river. I managed to twist slightly, so I was being pushed parallel to the river, but I was still moving at quite alarming rate.

Basil leaned back, his hair mussed, his eyes wild and breathing hard. 'What the matter Holmes?'

'I was saving us from a rather unfortunate bath in the river, but know that we're safe, please continue.'

Basil laughed, his voice echoing dully in the appearing fog. The night had fully descended, and Basil looked around at the sky like he had never seen the stars before.

'Get back here.' I hissed, pulling him back. Basil moaned as I started on his neck, and arched his back into me. I slid my hands up his shirt and pulled him as close as he could get. Suddenly, Basil grabbed me by the collar and wrenched me to my feet, slamming me against the lamp post as he did. The air in my lung vanished, but Basil gave me no thought. Still holding onto my collar, he pulled my shirt over my head and threw it on he ground, managing to take off his along with it. Though the air was cold, and molecules of water were splashing up the banks of the river, I doubt neither of us were cold.

An abrupt thought made me laugh and cringe in the same moment; what if someone saw us? Two men, both shirtless, kissing under the light of a lamp? I would never hear the end of it, if this ever got out. I found that I didn't care though. I'd rather spend this small moment with Basil and the potential humiliation that followed then not at all. I began kissing Basil harder then ever; I felt as though we had little time left. My hands strayed lower and lower until the were effectively below his belt. The artist bucked hard against me, and I began the migration of my kisses as well. They started at his mouth, moved to the base of his throat, and then down his chest. I stopped momentarily to suck his nipples, then kept venturing downward. I went to undo his belt, and this time I got it. Basil was sweating, nails raking my back, his eyes shut tight. I gripped the inside of his thighs, and he cried out. I slid down his pants enough, the lamp giving me light to see what I was doing, not that it was possible I could miss.

'Holmes.' Basil moaned from above me, 'No Holmes.'

I wasn't sure if I didn't hear the artist or simply ignored him, but I bent my head anyway.

Then, an unyielding hand was at the base of my neck, forcing my head up. I blink as Basil looked me in the eyes.

'Not now Holmes.' He croaked, his voice almost gone. 'Not while you're drunk.'

What he said seemed to have a peculiar effect on my stomach. It suddenly heaved, and I had to spin away from the artist. Foot steps on the stones nearby sent Basil fixing his pants and replacing his shirt, though I had no time to replace mine. I was too busy retching into the Thames.

'Holmes?' Watson called out as he came close, 'Is that you?'


	8. Chapter 8 In which anger is prominent

**The credit to the authors, comments are good; you know the drill.**

Basil

Watson called out but I couldn't hear his words over the loud retching from Holmes. The detective was leaning over the banks on his knees, and at one point, he fell over.

'Holmes!' Watson rushed over, but stopped when he saw me. 'Hallward! What's the matter with him?'

'Had too much to drink.' I sighed, hoping the darkness would help mask my red face and untucked shirt, among other things. 'He also managed to insult a large man at the bar. He will have a lovely set of bruises in the morning.'

Watson took a deep breath, sounding angry. 'Holmes has done some things to himself, but never this.' He pushed my shoulder, and I knocked against the lamp. 'What are you doing to him?'

'What do you mean? I have done nothing to him!' I asked in a low voice, my fists curling despite myself.

Watson's face was threatening, and he moved closer to me. He thrust an arm out, pointing at Holmes.'That man has saved my life more then once, and I his.' He snarled, 'If you think you can-'

'I am not some common vagrant Doctor!' I spat, 'And who are you to rule over Holmes' life?'

'Sherlock Holmes is a good man,' Watson growled, his eyes blazing. 'And I will left you have no part in his self- destructive ways!'

I blinked, my wind working. Watson must have though I encouraged the detective into doing this. 'No no Watson! Holmes drank all on his own! I tried to stop him, but he would have nothing of it!' I insisted.

Watson took a step back. 'You mean you didn't condone his actions?' The fire in the doctor's eyes was extinguished immediately, though his expression still held anger.

'Look at me.' I gestured, my hands making a pass down the length of my torso, 'Do I look like I have been drinking?'

Watson relaxed. 'Well, frankly yes, but I smell no alcohol on your breath. Pardon me for jumping to conclusions.' He ran his hand through his hair, looking at Holmes.

'No, it is in part my fault for losing my head so. Forgive me.' I held out my hand and Watson and I shook, testing the other as we did. We broke contact, turning to Holmes as we did. He was still laying on the pavement, his shirt gone, a small puddle of his sick around him. I picked up his shirt as I walked over.

'Well, he's done worse.' Watson muttered.

I glanced at the detective's friend. 'Is that possible?'

Watson laughed. 'You'd be surprised as to what Holmes has done to himself. He has a fondness for cocaine and boxing and, more often then not, both of them together.'

We hauled Holmes up, slinging on of his arms around our shoulders, and started to drag the drunk back to Baker Street. He was a dead weight, his head hanging. He reeked of the bar, the mint and cinnamon tobacco scent gone.

We stopped at 221's front door as Watson searched for his key. I propped Holmes against the fence but then Watson turned back to help me again, the door opened, he saw the lines I had carved into Holmes's back.

'What are those?' He exclaimed, turning to me. 'Was he attacked by a cat as well?'

'Ah, no.' I thought up a reply, but nothing came to mind. Watson seemed to be waiting for me to explain, but I said nothing.

The doctor examined the lines and gave me a suggestive look as we picked Holmes up again. Holmes' boots made quite a fantastic noise on the steps, Watson wincing after every loud thunk. The house was silent, as it should have been at one thirty, though I suddenly felt like an intruder as I entered apartment B. Watson slung Holmes onto the sofa, groaning as he did and placed a basin by his head.

'Well, I suppose I best be off.' I said nervously,standing by the door. I did not relish walking home with the fog and the dark, but I could not stand the sense of being an interloper any longer.

'Wait,' Watson grabbed my arm. 'Stay. I have to work tomorrow, and I do believe Holmes will need someone with him in the morning.'

He raised his eyebrow and I knew I couldn't leave Holmes the way he was. I sighed and stepped away from the door.

'Pull up a chair.' The doctor gestured, 'Can I offer you something to drink?'

'Tea would be lovely.' I murmured. My head was hurting, and I could hear the odd note in my voice.

Watson turned to me, his slight smile confused. 'What is it? You don't seem a man to let a friend drink himself dead. Why did you let Holmes do it?'

I blinked. The doctor was much more observant then Holmes gave him credit for. I let out a breath, but said nothing, keeping my gaze on the detective.

'He is quite a curious case, isn't he?' The doctor muttered. I heard the clinking of cups and the whistle of the kettle, though we both kept silent. Holmes was snoring now, but neither Watson nor I had replaced his shirt. We waited in silence for the tea. I attempted to think of nothing at all, though very attempt failed.

'Tea Sir.' Watson held it out after what seemed an eternity, and I took it, setting it down before I had even taken a sip. Watson stared at me over he rim of his mug, and, as if he was coming to a decision, he set his tea down as well.

'Something you said.' I asked timidly, 'Outside, about Holmes and cocaine. What were you talking about?'

Watson sighed. I knew he regretted what he had said, but now that he had, the words floated in my mind, taunting me. 'Holmes uses cocaine to escape from the boring reality us has to endure in the time between cases. That box, up there,' Watson was frank; sugar-coating it would do nothing. The doctor pointed to a small wooden box on the mantle. It was so unremarkable that I hadn't noticed it the first day, or any other, that I'd been here. 'In that box is Holmes' needle. I've been trying to convince him to stop, the boxing helps, but he won't.'

I tried to speak up, but I had nothing to say.

'What do you want from him?' Watson demanded suddenly. 'Why, after all this, are you still here?'

I still said nothing.

'If you are working for Moriarty, or anyone else who who wishes death on Holmes at the moment, know I will not stop until I find you dead.' Watson's voice was furious, his fists clenching as he spoke.

'And why would I do that?' I sneered coldly, standing to look out the window. I found myself wanting to argue. I had never wished that before, and I wasn't sure what brought it on.

'Because you shouldn't care so much!' He yelled, launching himself out of his chair and shouting at my back. The house shook at the fury in his voice. 'Because Holmes is cold, and he doesn't care about you or your problems.'

'You think so?' I shouted back, turning. I had never felt such rage before, but at least I knew where it came from. I was still anger at Holmes for being so stupid, but the doctor was the only outlet for my rage currently. 'He doesn't care? So then why did he come to my house at midnight because I asked him to? If he doesn't care, why did he-' I cut myself off. I had about to tell Watson our secret. I turned to Holmes and worked furiously at replacing his shirt.

Watson didn't say a word. He looked at me, then Holmes, and started to laugh. 'You and Holmes?'

The anger vanished with my blush and Watson got his answer. 'I see. Well, old boy, I'll make you a deal. You can have Holmes.'

'What?' I exclaimed, 'What are you even talking about? You are not his keeper! Who are you to choose who he's with?'

'Am I not?' Watson spat, and began pacing, a replica of Holmes. The venom in the doctor's voice was nearly tangible. 'I have to make sure he gets up in the morning, to make sure he's still alive. I have to take his pulse when he's been on that drug, just in case. Holmes may have lived on his own, but he would not be alive today if I hadn't moved in with him.'

I was flabbergasted, forced to stillness. This was the side of Holmes I hadn't seen. The self destructive side. I tried to speak up, make a point about why he needed the drug, why Holmes was the way he was, but nothing came. I realized in that moment how little I truly knew about the detective.

'You can attempt to defend his honor, but there is no point Mr. Hallward. Holmes knows what he's done, and frankly, I'm sure he relishes all the risks involved. So I'm offering you a deal. You can be with Holmes, you can stay with him, what ever you want. I am only asking that you stop this sort of behavior.' Watson was pleading with me now. He stopped moving to face me. It would have been pathetic if there was not so much emotion attached to his words.

'If you care for him as much as you claim, doctor,' I asked slowly, 'Then why can't you do it yourself?'

'I have tried, believe me I have tried.' He sighed. 'Holmes won't listen to me. But you. Holmes was in the middle of a week long stint with his needle. The fact that he even got up for you meant something.'

All previous thoughts of being nothing to Holmes rushed from my head.

'I will be gone soon, and I don't trust him to take care of himself. Please,' He was begging now, though not on his knees. 'Take care of him.'

'I swear I will.' I promised finally understanding the man's wishes. 'Nothing would give me greater pleasure.'

'Thank you.' Watson breathed, sounding truly grateful. I hadn't realized how much Watson did care for Holmes. I felt a small twang of envy, but dismissed it. There was no way that Holmes had ever done anything with Watson.

We shook hands again, both of us smiling.

'Don't break his heart Basil.' Watson commanded.

'I never intend to.' I vowed.

The touching moment was marred by Holmes being sick into the bucket.

Holmes

The splitting headache or the burning in my throat; I was never quite sure which on woke me. I knew I was on the sofa by the material beneath my face, but I could not recall why. I opened my eyes, hoping to gain clues, but the world was a blur. My vision was swimming, and a slight shift in my body weight caused my currant bed to squeak. It felt as if someone was driving a dagger into my skull. My sense of smell was not altered though, so the wafting smell of sick made it to my brain without a single problem.

Oh, had I been drunk.

The world settled slightly, and I could see two men a asleep in chair, like they had been watching me when they succumbed to their exhaustion. I ran one hand down my face. That proved to be quite the opposite thing as to what I should have done. The pain was not anymore then I had felt, though it was quite extraordinary all the same. Gingerly I felt the sore area around my jaw, noting there was no fractures nor any lacerations, though it felt extremely swollen. A cold compress would aid in the heeling process, so I swung my legs off the sofa in an attempt to stand. the resulting nausea had me kneeling on the floor, head over the basin. I retched, the bile burning my throat and leaving a foul taste in my mouth, though there was nothing left in my stomach. I shut my eyes and contemplated my options. I could have Watson give me something, I could try and fool them into thinking I was fine, or I could call on Basil to wait on me hand and foot. Or, I thought to myself, you could do none of those things. I turned my head to the small plain box on the mantle. The needle was primed for another injection at anytime, I recalled violently. Basil and his case had dragged me away from the siren call of the drug before I had a chance to answer.

The thought terrified me slightly.

I stood slowly, carefully, and shuffled over to the box. I unmatched the catch and admired the simplicity of the needle. My seven-percent solution sparkled slightly in the dawning light, and I knew if I 'poisoned' myself with the stuff, I'd be back in its clutches, and the habit would be fully awakened. With a trembling hand, I put the lid down, though my hand rested on the box. I sighed, the sigh full of longing, desire, such extreme need, a sigh I would never let anyone else hear. A small movement from behind me, a hitch in the breath, and I knew someone had heard.

'You are awake.' I murmured.

'Yes Holmes.' It was Basil. 'How could you?' He demanded quietly. His voice wavered slightly.

'How could I what Basil?'

'How could you-'

'Shut the lid of the box? Resist the temptation? Not even pick up the needle?' I interrupted, facing my accuser, 'Or would you rather I have injected myself with it?'

Basil was standing, arms crossed and set his mouth in an angry line. 'No, but-'

'But what Basil?' I snarled. 'I could have used it, but I didn't. What do you want from me?' I moved to take a step away from the man, but a sudden rush of dizziness had me stumbling, and I fell to the ground. I thought Basil would come and help me up, but to no avail. He stood there. He stood there and watched me fall.

'I must be off Holmes.' Basil uncrossed his arms and ran his hand through his hair. 'My friends are most likely worried.' He went into my chambers to fetch his jacket and hat, then swept to the door.

His hand trembled as he turned the knob. 'Today is Tuesday Holmes.' Even his voice shook. 'The party is in two days. I expect you to do your part.' And slammed the door. The noise rumbled inside my skull, and the pain was as much as I expected.

'Well done.' Watson groaned from his chair. I had forgotten him. 'Now, not only do I have to go into work moving like an old man, I also have to deal with you for the rest of the night. I had planned to go and see Mary, but now?' He shrugged, and shuffled into his room.

What had Watson meant by 'Deal with you'? I had been hungover before, and by the end of the day I should be quite myself. So to what was Watson refering?

He was angry, I gathered that much though. The doctor said not a single word to me over his food. The smell had turn my stomach again, but Watson hadn't bothered to even open a window to aid my recovery.

'I say Watson,' I complained. 'Must you read the paper so loudly?'

'Well Holmes,' The doctor was nearly shouting. 'I had always though reading was a silent activity, but if you can hear me, I must be doing somethig wrong.'

He gave the paper one last shake and stormed out, the door being slammed for the second time this morning.

I waited for the apartments to stop shaking to get up and did what I did best; think. How to get out of my current predicament? Watson was angry with me, but I knew him we enough; he would calm down in a few days. Basil though, seemed set on never speaking with me again on friendly terms. I could understand Watson's angry more or less, but I wasn't quite clear as to what I had done to Basil. Had I done something to him last night? There was no methods on this planet that would help me remember, and my head hurt enough already. Instead, I took the needle out again, making my choice. I rolled up the sleeves of my filthy shirt, and tied off. When I placed the tip of my needle against the vein that was visible at the crook of my elbow, I smiled. It would be good to be stimulated again.

Then, the worst possible thing happened. One moment I had been ready and about to inject. The next, the needle was on the floor, the cocaine run out onto the carpet. I shut my eyes, and swore, cursing my unsteadiness. I had dropped it, and now any chance I had was gone. Or was it? I flew over to my files, finding the one I needed almost immediately. The file was on a Mr. Gordon Bone, an unsavory character from Wales who had moved for better prospects. Lestraude has asked if I might track him down, but tonight I would seek him out for a different reason. Sweeping my needle off the floor, I stroud out the door.

Without a doubt present in my mind would Mr. Bone be able to acquire what I needed tonight. Soon I promised myself. Soon.


	9. Chapter 9 In which suits are finished

**Oscar Wilde and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle get the credit here. Comments are good for the soul.**

Basil

The exact moment the front door of my studio shut, I shank to the floor, my anger gone, along with energy. I had managed to hold on all the way from his apartments, not shaking with despair, nor burning with longing. I had no recollection of walking from there to where I was now; I had walked, and that was the extent of my knowledge. It had been a close race though, from there to here; any longer and I do not know what would have occurred.

It was so hard not to think about him; walking past the market, I caught the scent of mint; in the streets I'd see someone who would resemble him. Even in my own rooms, my recovered tools only served as a bitter reminder of the detective. It was indeed hard not to think about him, though it was nowhere near as hard as walking out on him had been. I had considered the possibility of my heart ripping out my chest. Or Watson ripping it out. My chest certainly felt empty, almost hollow, like I was missing something. Perhaps I was. Perhaps, truly, I was missing him. I contemplated this, my back against the wood of my door, my eyes up at the ceiling, but shook off the thoughts as I placed my hands on my forehead and forced my body to stand. I made tea like I was expecting someone, though I drank all of it myself. Attempting to paint had been a mistake; nothing came to mind, and when I tried to gain inspiration from the outside world, the cheerless morning and circling crows only made things worse.

What was I to do? If I stayed here, I would be consumed by the thoughts, but if I strayed to the world beyond my chambers, I had no idea as to what would transpire. First though, I thought to myself, sleep. It had been some restless nights the past few days, and even my artist's body needed to catch up on sleep. Throwing myself on the bed and waited to slip off into sleep. Even my dreams were haunted by him.

I woke later in the day, feeling refreshed. I knew not why I had thought those things, especially the way I had. Every human goes through heartbreak at one time or another, so why did I have to feel such pain over it. I forced the detective into the smallest recess of my mind and went for a walk. The night was beautiful- the wind caressed instead of blew, the sun kissed everything with its rays and even the stench of London had evaporated. I wandered through the medieval street, seeing beauty again. In sight of Dorian, nothing had been beautiful, and for months after finishing his painting, I had seen ash.

I began to feel the most basic of human needs, and decided to go in search of a tavern or small restaurant, having a few coins in my pocket. Instead, I found a small tobacco shop that sold spirits and some food, and so I stopped there. The interior was rather posh for the district I was in; the chairs were more then pieces of wood and the artwork displayed was interesting for once. The waitress came, her dress low on her chest and the skirt swung with her hips.

But she didn't have me stumbling over my words, my mind in knots.

I gave my order, and relaxed. There would be good food soon, and if I were careful, I would even find a friend in the shop's other tenants. They seemed a surly lot, but I felt invincible. Perhaps I would get drunk and fight one of them, simply because the option was there.

I was admiring a portrait of a rather old fellow, dressed in livery like he was a king, when my food came, thought I flashed a smile at the waitress, she seemed to walk away disappointed, but the thought of calling her back was not even entertained. The food was as good as I had imagined.

Once I had finished, I ordered a pint of ale, and watched the people of the bar as they ate their food and bought tobacco. No one took notice of me, or so I though.

'You want a smoke mate?' A brawny man asked me from behind the bar, 'Any thing on this side of me's half price.'

I walked up to the counter as I found my pipe. I didn't smoke as often as most, but the small clay pipe was empty, and I found that I wanted to belong with the other smoking patrons.

'Why not?' I mulled over my choice, but gave up trying to choose. 'What's your favorite?' I asked the bartender.

He nodded and pulled out a small case from the top shelf. 'This here's the best cut we got. A rather acquired taste, but those who like it never go back to anything else.'

I bought enough to fill my pipe, paid for my meal and left. I lit it on my way out, and took a deep drag.

I could smell him; he was close. Or he seemed to be- the odor was tainted slightly, but it was him.

I flipped this way and that, searching for the man. The entire alley was deserted, not a soul that I could see. I looked up, but could not find the source. Hallucination; that must be it. I started my walk back, but the scent trailed me. If I hadn't known better, I would have said he was next to me. I stopped in the center of a small park, and the smell kept with me. 'Think.' I gritted my teeth. 'Why would he be here, and following you so close?'

My eyes focused on my pipe, and I wanted to kick myself. Of course. It was cinnamon tobacco. That was why it had seemed tainted; the mint was missing.

Shoving my pipe back into my coat pocket, and cursing at my stupidity, I stormed back to my apartment. I can't let such hope build, I scowled, you were wrong about the whole affair, then locked my door. If the land lord saw me the way I way, I'm not entirely sure who's side he take; though the two of us had been friends for years, Mr. Coltenberg did admire the detective so.

A state of worry ensnared my mind, making me pace. I knew why I was worried so; if the mere scent of the man drove me to such ends, what would hearing his name do, or his photograph in The Times? This morning I had promised that I think no longer on the man, but the subject was crawling out of the small corner I had locked it in. The pacing continued as I tried to answer the age old question: why?

Why had I gotten angry with him?

Because he chose the drug over me.

The epiphany erupted into my mind. He had chosen to go back to that horrid substance over staying with me, letting me take care of him. Watson had said he had been in the middle of using. So what did that make me? An unwanted interruption? I growled and sobbed at the thought. The pacing finished, I lay down quietly on my quilt, and tried to think of a different time. Before I knew the detective.

Before I was chosen over a drug.

**Holmes**

'Confound their knavish tricks!'

'Holmes!'

'Confuse their politics!'

'Holmes, get off that barrel!'

'On you our hopes we fix!'

'For God's sake Holmes!' Watson screamed. 'Get back here!'

The part of my brain that had registered the doctor's shouts decided it would also be quite a good idea to follow his orders. I made my way up to the banks of The Thames. Watson stood there, arms crossed, probably more angry then a fox at noon, and watched me bob up and down, like a dead fish.

'Holmes, what in Hell are you doing?' He demanded. I had never seen the doctor so furious, and he reminded me of a cloud I had once spent three hours observing. I informed the doctor just that.

He gave no inclination he had heard me, so I repeated myself, twice in French, until Watson grabbed my wrists and hauled me over the banks.

'What is wrong with you?' Disgust was now added to the mix of emotion in Watson's voice. Watson rather sounded like ''Whale'' didn't it?

He grabbed my elbow and checked the inside of my arms both had a small prick mark each.

'I promise you Watson, it was a bird.' I kept my voice as serious as I could.

'Bird.' He was walking off, pulling me with him, barely listening.

'Quite, yes. It flew from the sky and landed on my head. Then he demanded for three golden apples. I told the bird he would get no apples unless he ringed his offensive form from my skull, but the bird didn't seem to understand so he peck me rather precisely in both arms.' I examined the tiny marks. 'Rather remarkable isn't it?'

When we had returned to Baker Street, I could not say, but we were now in our rooms.

'Watson, did you fly us here?' I asked, my voice full of wonder. 'Watson, was that bird really you all along?'

'Holmes, shut up!' He roared. Now the doctor resembled a lion, though I didn't tell him. 'This is too far Holmes. I understand that you were upset-'

'Upset?' I interrupted. 'Over what?'

Now Watson was confused. 'Over Basil. I know he left, but really, that is no excuse.'

'You think I did this because of Basil?' I laughed, noting my laughter to be quite mad. 'No no no, my good lion man, I did this because, well, you know.'

'No Holmes.' Watson sounded tired now. 'I honestly do not understand.'

'Well, let me enlighten you. I -'

'No Holmes, let me enlighten you! You are causing more problems then you imagine with this 'habit' of yours! I can not simply let you continue to do this.' He paused then continued in a much lower voice. 'Not with the way you hurt Basil like that.'

I know the conversation went on longer then that, I know Watson and I discussed the possibility of the statues in Hyde Park becoming the new Lords, or perhaps I had been talking to myself, but I do not know when the conversing stopped, and I had fallen asleep. I do know I woke with my head unexpectedly in the logs for the fire, Watson was gone and it was the next morning. My head was coated in small wood bits, and my clothes stank with the smell of the drug. This was much worse then being hung over, but why? Obviously Mr. Bone had made a rather poor solution for me, no doubt adding some rather conspicuous substances to the mix. Giving Lestraude the details as to the location of Mr. Bone would be high up on my list of things to do.

I rose to my feet, but had to grip the mantle to steady myself. I was trembling like a leaf, and the box that held my needle danced tauntingly in the corner of my vision. Why I ever did anything like this to myself, really, was a mystery to Watson, but was starting to become more and more baffling to myself as well. Certainly, my mind rebelled at stagnation, but there had to be a better way then what I was currently doing. I regarded myself disgustingly; my clothes were ruined, I was continuing to shake and Watson's anger. They were all for what? A few moments of increased stimulation? It was becoming less and less worth it.

I made my way to the table, hoping to find something to read in the morning's edition of The Times, but instead found a note left from Watson.

It read that a telegram had come to announce the completion of my suits. Suits? Ah yes, I recalled, Basil had gotten one as well. His name caused a small tug in my heart; rather, it caused a tug where my heart would be. Yesterday, when Basil had left, I had felt a great pain in my chest, like Basil had ripped out my heart and taken it with him.

Having nothing else to do that day, I decided to go pick up my suit. I was not sure how to pass on the message to Basil though, as I wasn't sure he'd want a visit from me, even one as impersonal as a telegram. And knowing the suits that Mr. Grimson made, it would be of a quality I wouldn't want to leave with the cleaning lady or the landlord. I did my best not to weight on it to much as I walked to the tailor's shop, but I found it was nearly impossible _not_ to think about it. The pedestrians that walked by held no interest for me at the moment. All I could think about each of them was '_You're not Basil'_.

Mr. Grimson greeted me enthusiastically as I entered, rushing over to shake my hand, offering me a cup of tea. 'But where is the other gentleman?' He asked, 'I have his suit all finished too!'

'Ah,' I thought of a suitable lie to tell, 'He had a previous engagement.'

'Well, no matter. He can come later.' The tailor brought the finished piece to me, and pointed to the dressing room. 'Let's see this on you.'

I changed and noted that little adjustment would be necessary; as excitable as the man was, Grimson could certainly make a suit. I came out of the small dressing room, and stood on the raised platform. The tailor walked circles around me, prodding me as he did.

'Well, Mr. Holmes.' He nodded finally. 'It seems there is no need for any minuet adjustments, so you may leave with it.'

I returned to the dressing room and changed out of it. 'It fits exceedingly well, Mr. Grimson. My compliments.' There was a pause. 'If I want, I could bring the other suit to my companion. I highly doubt there will be need for any other tailoring.'

I felt horrible as I said it. _I_ may have wanted to see the artist, but the artist mot likely did not share the feeling. I was trapped now though, as Mr. Grimson was already handing me the two suits, each in their own box.

'Very good Mr. Holmes. I do hope you will come back!'

I was ushered from the shop and left standing outside with the two boxes. I sighed inwardly and started to make my way to Basil's. The overcast skies seemed to mirror my mood.

I stopped at the entrance to apartments. No one was visible in the windows, nor could any voice be heard. I knocked, and the housekeeper opened the door. I informed her of the nature of my presence, and she let me in without question. Quietly as I was able, I crept up the stairs, walking until I found myself face to face with Basil's door. I hadn't made any motion towards the door, I was still unsure of how to go about my mission, but I must have made a noise, because the door opened.

'Holmes.' Basil's voice was cold and weary. Like he was speaking to an old adversary he was tired of dealing with. 'What are you doing here?'


	10. Chapter 10 In which they make up

**And we have a story in which the the characters belong to Oscar Wilde and Sir Arthur Connan Doyle. And here we have an author that enjoys reviews.**

Basil

He was a mess. His hair stuck out in every direction, his clothes were rumpled and his shirt was un-tucked, there were dark circles under his eyes and he stunk of sweat. And though he was standing right in front of me, I refused to think his name.

'Basil. I have your suit.' He words came out as clean and efficiently as they always did, but I could detect a slight nervousness behind them. They shook slightly, an effect of withdrawal no doubt.

'I don't need it Mr. Holmes.' I insisted firmly. 'Now please be on your way, I have many things I must do.' I'm sure he could tell I was lying.

'Please Basil. It is tailored to you, Mr. Grimson would be horrified to know you didn't want it.' He seemed to be begging.

'Fine.' I grumbled, and snatched the package from his hands, placing it just inside my door, 'There, now can you leave?'

'Yes, yes, I can leave.' His words were panicked. 'I will- yes, I will go.'

With that, I walked off. The detective grabbed my arm with a cry and held me fast.

'Basil, I do apologize. I know what I did was wrong. Please-'

I threw off his hand and turned on him. 'Oh you know what you did? Well, I do suppose you are intelligent one, aren't you?' I was shaking as he was now. 'Then perhaps you could tell me why even though you chose a drug over me, my blood is racing now that you are here? But when I left, it felt like you had ripped my heart out? Why Holmes?' I demanded, furious and yet I was groveling. 'Tell me Holmes, why when I hate you, I still want nothing more then to have you in my arms right now?'

'Basil...' He murmured. 'I cannot tell you why your heart behaves the way it does, but I can tell you that when you left, I too felt my heart being ripped out.' He shut his eyes and sighed. We were standing a foot apart, our stances a mirror of each other; bodies taught as a wire, wanting to reach out, faces flush with the efforts of holding back. I was honestly unsure of how much longer I could contain my self with him standing in front of me like this, though I'm not sure if I would have hit him or kissed him.

'Basil, I know it is too much to ask for, but can you forgive me?' His eyes were still tightly shut, and his voice was soft.

'Holmes, I have to.' I said simply.

His eyes snapped open. 'What do you mean?'

'If I went on hating you for what you did, then it would be torture to me. ' I shrugged.

In an unexpected movement, Holmes closed the foot of space between us and wrapped his arms around me.

'I will never let you go again, Basil.' He whispered in my ear, and I felt my heart soar.

'And I will never leave.' I murmured back. I reached behind me and opened the door again as I tilted my head up and reached his lips. They were cracked, but tasted as sweet before. I could smell the mint and cinnamon tobacco underneath the stench of the sweat.

We didn't break the kiss to enter my rooms. Holmes shut the door with a kick, his arms wrapped around me. Holmes. The name that had been momentarily taboo in my mind was now running rampart. It was a joyful feeling, thinking his name again. Holmes.

'Oh Holmes, that reminds me.' I broke the kiss to speak, and he tried to move forward to find my lips again. 'I found this tobacco.' I pulled some of the shreds from my pockets and he took them, breathing deep.

'Cinnamon.' He decided. 'But why do you have this?'

I blushed. 'The scent is very similar to yours.'

He laughed, and leaned his forehead against mine. 'Basil, how I ever spent yesterday without you, I'll never know.'

He kissed me again, and my head went blank. Any witty responses I had formulated in my head were gone, replaced with this moment. I deepened the kiss, and wrapped my hands in his. They were clammy, but they were still his hands. I don't know how long we stood there, hands intertwined, lips pressed together. Dorian's party could have come and gone and I wouldn't have minded. If I could stay like this forever, I would.

Holmes sighed against my mouth and took a step back. The small movement sent a shard of ice into my spine.

'Holmes?' Any heat I had felt coming off the detective was gone.

'You were just angry with me Basil.' He still had his hand in mine and he was looking at them like they were a piece of evidence. 'How can I know if you are merely doing this to get back at me?'

'You think I would do that?' I whispered. 'You think I could hurt you?'

His eyes locked onto mine. 'I don't know what to think anymore. I use to think I would never find someone, and yet I found you. I thought my skills were undeniable, and yet now I miss details because I'm too busy looking at you.'

'If I was trying to hurt you, do you think I would have stopped at a kiss?' I asked softly.

'No, I suppose not.' Holmes smiled. 'I apologize for being suspicious.'

'Stop apologizing Holmes.' I growled as I pulled him back to me. 'I can hardly kiss you if you're saying ''I'm sorry'' all the time,now can I?'

'Very true.' He breathed and slid his mouth to my ear, melting my frozen spine. 'Though I could apologize if I was doing this.' His teeth grazed the line of my jaw, and whispered he was sorry, punctuating his words with a kiss, his voice sent shivers through my body. I twisted my hands out of his and anchored them in his hair. The only thing I could hear was Holmes and his whispered apologies; someone could have been knocking at the door and I wouldn't have known.

'I think,' I hinted, 'that's enough of that.' He smiled, pulling my face back to his.

'Your wish is my command.' Holmes murmured, his hands straying to my waist. The heat was coming off the detective's body again, and it was intoxicating. He pulled me sharply against me, his hips pressing into mine. We fell into the door and the resulting sounds was enough to shock us back to reality.

Holmes

Basil met my eyes, but without a trace of being ashamed. Instead, his eyes burned with the fire of desire. I had not a clue as to what the artist read in my eyes, but I shut them none the less.

'What's the matter Holmes?' He asked, half mocking, half concerned.

'Nothing. The noise simply startled me, is all.' I lied. My head had commenced a horrid pounding, and my vision had begun to swim. My body was craving the drug again, but all my mind wanted was Basil. And since when does your body take precedence over your mind? I thought, smiling slightly. Opening my eyes, I muttered 'I do believe we are wearing entirely too much.'

'And I, for one, agree completely.' Basil replied, pulling me back into his caress. I slid my lips onto his, forcing his mouth open. Our tongues meshed as he was peeling off my jacket and I was stripping off his. He tasted so sweet and I knew nothing would taste as good as he. I broke off again, almost without previous thought.

'Basil,-'

'Holmes, not another word!' He growled and rushed into me, slamming my back into the wall. He me there, ripped my shirt off, and kissed me as fiercely as ever. I responded by placing one hand on his inner thigh and hitching his leg onto my waist, the other hand I placed on his lower back. Our mouth moved in sync for a moment as Basil took off his own shirt, and taking the hand that had been on his back, placed it lower. I pushed us off from the wall, and we fell on the artist's bed. I left his mouth to explore his chest, nipping the skin as I went, making my mark. The moans from Basil were enough to send me swooning.

We rolled over, Basil weighing nothing on my chest. I felt as if I were on fire now, as if the room was burning. The places Basil touched were almost painful with heat, but at the least, that spurred me on. I pulled off my own pants, taking Basil's off with mine, and moved down off his torso. The area around Basil's lower stomach was extremely sensitive; I had no idea how kissing the area would have the artist arching into me. I grazed the lowest part of his torso with my tongue, Basil moaning much too loud. I pulled him down to me, pressing my mouth to his to stop the noise. He shut his eyes and whispered 'Holmes, now. Do it now.'

Giving him one last burning kiss, I gabbed him by both hips and turned him around. Setting a trail of small bite marks down his spine, I realized that Basil might not want to be marked like an animal.

'Don't stop.' He groaned. 'Please Holmes, don't stop.'

Taking that as free rein, I pushed into him with a grunt. Any scream Basil had been about to let out melted into a whimper. It must have been painful, but the artist never let on I was hurting him. He was, most like me, wrapped in the pleasure of it all. I forgot Basil had wanted to never speak with me again, I forgot how much I had hurt him. I forgot everything except this moment.

I pulled out and re- traced my steps up Basil's back. Kissing his jaw from over his shoulder, I slowly turned the artist over. He smashed his mouth to mine, then slid his tongue down my chest, sending shivers through me. When he reached my belly button, my body arched into his. He placed his mouth on my inner thigh, and I let loose a moan that put any of Basil's to shame.

'That's what I was waiting for.' He smirked as I was turned over limply. I was a puppet under Basil's capable hands; they were braced against my shoulder blades as Basil moved into me.

If I thought being on the inside was good, I was a fool. I was shocked into silence, and though it did bring some pain, I had never experienced anything like it. If this is what being with Basil meant, my seven percent solution was have no sway over my life again.


	11. Chapter 11 In which a party is attended

**Hello hello hello. This story is coming to an end, I'm afraid. Still one or two chapters left, thought. Comments, reviews and rating are all fantastic.**

**A/N: I don't own any of the characters in this story. You should know what by now.**

Basil

He was gone.

This was the second pass I had made with my arm through the sheets, but all I could feel was the sheets. Groaning, I sat up, cursing myself for being so stupid, for trusting the bastard and being led along like a small child. I tried to ignore the memories of last night, but Holmes' face kept floating up in my mind.

'Very good work Basil, that was entirely well done. You had sworn to never speak to that damned man again, and you end up sleeping with him.' I spat at myself, 'although, if you ignore the conversation at the start, then we honestly didn't speak very much at all.' I added pensively.

I rubbed my back, hurting from something Holmes had done, no doubt, as I stared at the sheets.

'Those are not mine.' I realized finally.

'No, they're not.' Holmes' voice agreed, entering the door, 'I had to steal them from the linen closet. Well, more borrow, as I intend to return them.' The voice was disembodied, as I could not see the door from my bed. 'We made quite a mess of your original sheets. I washed them, so if you do not mind getting up, I can restore your sheets to their proper location.'

Holmes came around the corner, sleeves rolled to his elbows, basket in hand, and smiled at me. 'Good morning to you sunshine. Sleep well?'

'Yes, but Holmes-' I stopped, frowning, wondering how I ever thought such a thing, 'I thought you had left.'

He wasn't angry in the least. 'That's understandable, but you are wrong. if you had noticed, you would have seen my jacket is still here,' He pointed to where it still lay crumpled on the floor.

I blushed. 'Ah yes, of course. Pardon my lack of faith.'

'Don't worry about it. I would have thought the same thing.'

'No,' I pointed out, 'You would have seen my jacket and not worried in the slightest.'

He laughed, 'That is more like me. Now if you wouldn't mind moving?'

I looked around the bed for my pants. I gave Holmes a pointed look, and he turned around chuckling.

'I don't know why I'm turned around Basil. It wouldn't be anything I haven't seen before.'

Pants securely on, I gave the detective a quick kiss on the cheek as I pass by him. 'Yes, but I can't take anyone seriously if they've seen me put my pants on.'

Holmes shook his head, still chuckling, and went about changing the sheets. I just watched him, trying to memorize every little movement he made. When he was finished, his eyes caught mine and my breath hitched. I felt intently happy.

'Do you want some breakfast?' He asked, as he stood, my sheets back on my bed, the other sheets now in the basket. 'Well, actually, seeing as it's rather late, would you like some lunch?'

Surprised, I looked at the clock. 'I slept until noon? Well, I best suppose I should have some food. We have to get ready for the party soon.'

'Right.' Holmes nodded. 'I'll leave you in charge of making the masks while I get the food ready.'

Masks? Oh of course. The party was to be a masquerade ball: we could not enter with out them. I got out my pots of paint and glue as I ripped an old copy of the Times to strips. Paper mâché might not be the fanciest way to have a mask made, but I had little time for a mask made of wire and I was fresh out of plaster.

Once I had prepared the paper mâché mix, I pulled up a chair and pressed Holmes into it. He hadn't come very willingly, claiming the food needed to be tended, but a placed a coated strip over his mouth.

'Now sit still, Holmes!' I ordered, dressing in my smock, and the detective stopped wriggling at once. The command had been taken very seriously, as he didn't move one single muscle the entire time I was placing the paper.

Neither of us spoke. I was concentrating on placing the soggy paper into place and Holmes wouldn't risk the mask. Finished the basic form, I began to reenforce the weak spots- the bridge of the nose, around the eyes, the edge of the forehead.

'I'll finish the small details later, when it's dry.' I explained. 'For now, you may sit and do nothing while it drys.'

Holmes may have nodded, but it was so slight I didn't see it. I turned back to the food to prevent our meal from becoming inedible and smiled. Even if this party was being attended by the two of us with less then good intention, it would be a good night. All of Dorian's parties were amusing to attend. Gypsies, acrobats, exotic dancers, snake charmers; all had been in attendance at Dorian's last ball, and it was doubtless they would be missing this time around. Stirring the pan of what appeared to be eggs, I told Holmes what to expect. Along with the entertainment, a few citizens from the underbelly of London would also be there. Alcohol would flow faster than water and in larger quantities. An entire room would be dedicated to the smoking of substances.

The one-sided conversation was held over my shoulder. I felt an uncomfortable shiver creeping up my spine when I spoke of Dorian, and I didn't want Holmes to come to any conclusions. I had held a large admiration of the boy when I had first met him, which had turned into more of a sick obsession. An excitement I hadn't perceived had wedged its way in regards with speaking to the party's host. A voracious excitement and a ravenous doubt. With that, this horrible feeling that the evening would somehow go horribly wrong was also wrapping my thoughts. Dorian was beautiful, and had lost none of his beauty as the years passed, and I feared that his habits at parties would ruin the night. I told Holmes none of that though, as I didn't want to worry the detective. I suppose I could have called the evening off, but I wasn't sure I could. The painting was almost within my grasp and I would put my own uneasiness to rest if I could see it one more time.

'Basil?' I jumped at the the sound of another voice. 'The mask came off a moment ago. Shall we eat before I do yours?'

Flustered, I agreed and took plates and cutlery and set the table as Holmes dished out the food. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast; it was a veritable feast. I tasted nothing. We cleaned up, speaking of trivial things.

'Well, Basil, this is about the best I can do.' Holmes sighed. I was in the chair he had been, getting my mask started. 'I must confess I have a small amour of talent for things such as this.'

'I doubt that somehow!' I laughed, moving my face as little as I could. 'It feels the right weight though. Leave it now and I will wait for it to dry.' I smiled at my companion. 'If worst comes to worst, I can fix it up later.'

'Very well. Is there anything else that needs to be done?' He asked.

'Nothing but wait.'

Clapping his hands, Holmes plunked down into a chair across from me. 'Good! Shall I tell you of some of my cases to pass the time?'

I nodded and he launched right into his tales. He was very animated, using his hands to describe things and even portrayed his assortment clients and opponents with different voices. I heard him speak of snakes on bell ropes, red hair, words painted in blood and The Woman. Stories were told of a hell hound that was nothing more than a dog, five orange seeds that were sent to a man who then died a couple days later, and when the great detective himself had brushed with death. As I could not speak, I watched the man recount he cases. All of his hand movements, the words he selected: I memorized all of them, branding them into my mind. And, at some point during the story telling, a thought appeared into my head. I loved this man. It didn't matter that I would go to Hell for it, or that it was so many kinds of wrong; I loved him anyway. Any pain in my chest from before was destroyed. It was like I had been injected with heat and my heart was trying to pound it's way from my chest. Every time his eye caught mine, something bubbled up inside and I felt... Happy. I had never been in love before; the thing I had felt with Dorian was nothing but an infatuation- I knew that now. With a smile on my face, I looked up at Holmes. He may not have been beautiful like Dorian was, but the lines on the detective's face mapped out experiences and emotions that Dorian lacked and I found so much more appealing.

'Basil?' He asked and I sighed into his voice. My name slipped from between his teeth like a sunrise- bright, but slow.

'I think the mask is ready Holmes.' I murmured, pulling it off. Shying suddenly, I lowered my eyes. The thought of Holmes knowing the vast truth of how my heart had attached itself to him was sending more shivers down my back, and I found myself unwilling to let him know. If the detective noticed a change in me, he said nothing.

I placed the two masks side-by-side on the floor, thinking on the stories Holmes had just told for inspiration. The masks were simple, white ovals molded to our faces, with holes for our eyes; they needed color and lines and forms. A flicker of an idea passed in the corner of my mind- sparked to life by the stories. I required more though- much more.

'Tell me more.' I whispered, 'Tell me everything.'

Holmes

Basil was a man possessed. The moment I had begun speaking of my cases and adventures, lines simply seemed to appear on the masks. A bold, dark line here, a faint, bright line there; if there was a pattern to the shapes and streaks of color, I could not see it. Basil's hand moved far too quickly for my eyes to follow and the frenzied manner in which he painted frightened me. Enthralled so I was with Basil's movements, that I knew not what I said anymore- I could have been speaking nonsense.

Daylight was almost gone- and Basil still hadn't finished our masks.

'Basil?' my throat was dry. It was the first word I had consciously spoken in a long while. Though it was in reality only a few hours, it felt like years had passed.

The artist didn't look up. 'Yes?' His smock and face were covered in flecks of paint, but made no movement to clean them off.

'Oh, nothing. I was checking to see if you are still conscious.'

He looked up this time, and smiled. The small movement of his face from a concentrated frown to a bright grin stopped my breath in my throat. 'Well, as much as I'm sure that's what you were checking, I'll tell you that the masks are nearly finished. An another hour or so and they will be dry.'

'We don't have an hour so so Basil.' I pulled out my pocketwatch and checked the time. Ten to five. 'We must be on our way in half an hour if we are to be there in time.'

The artist nodded, and stood. 'I suppose we could wear them if we had to. The paint might still be slight damp, but I doubt very much that anyone would notice.' He picked up the larger of the two masks. 'This one's yours.'

I was numb as I took it from Basil's out streched hands. The plain oval it had been was gone- in its place was a thing of beauty. A angular and stretched 'B' shape fit close to my skin, a pointed edge on either side wrapped around my head and was help in place with ribbon. The entire thing seemed to be made from a delicate black- green lace inlayed with small silver roses, but in truth, was all paint. There was a deeper pattern in the lace that spoke of mysteries and secrets; I could not fathom how he had done it- I was in complete and utter awe.

'Basil- this... This is beautiful.' I murmured. He flushed a bright red and tried to brush away my praise. 'No Basil. Honestly, I do believe this is the finest work I have ever seen done.' I insisted.

'Well thank you Holmes. That means much coming from you.' He certainly sounded pleased, but also sad.

'What's wrong Basil?' Putting the mask down on the table, I moved closer to the man, and slid both my hand on his face. His jaw was rough from stubble, and lines were etched into his skin, there was a dull sheen over his eyes, and dark circles under them, but none the less, he was handsome.

He tried to turn away, but I held fast. 'Please Basil.'

'I-.' He stopped, like saying whatever he was about to say was causing him physical pain and squeezed his eyes tight. I couldn't stand it. The though of Basil being hurt was driving me mad. I drew a ragged breath and press my lips to his. 'Please Basil.' I whispered. 'I can't fix what ever's wrong if you don't tell me.'

His eyes opened slowly, but the pain was still there. I wanted to take the pain away. 'Hold on to me Basil. Hold on until you can stand on your own.'

He nodded and rested his head against my shoulder as I wrapped my arms around him. It was only a moment, but it seemed to be an eternity.

'Holmes, the truth is,' Basil whispered finally, 'I have a horrible feeling about this coming night. Like something going to go terribly wrong.'

I froze.

'I have been getting these shivers, like a blade of ice is going up my spine. And... And I'm not sure how I will react to Dorian.'

I force a weak smile. 'My dearest Basil. Fear not: if Mr. Grey reacts badly, I will force him into submission. And that feeling is most likely derived from the thought of seeing your painting again. Having not seen it for so long must be rather nerve- racking for you.'

'Yes.' He murmured, sighing. 'You are indeed brilliant Holmes.'

'We should be getting dressed.' I murmured back, but we didn't move. Basil's body heat was mingling with mine, his breath was on my neck and I could feel his pulse through his back. It was the sun that forced us apart- if we waited any longer, we would lose time to look for the picture.

We dressed in silence. The suit I had ordered fit perfectly, as did Basil's. The yellow scarf I had made for him held a nice contrast, and he had incorporated some of the yellow into his mask- the same lace pattern had been done, but instead of a dark green, the color of my suit, it was a red, and instead of silver roses, there were small, yellow lilies. Neither of us put the masks on yet, waiting until we were at the party for that. I wasn't sure I could put it on- I was so amoured with looking at it, I didn't want it were it would be invisible to me.

The hansom ride was quiet. We went over the general strategy- Basil was to talk to Dorian for hints before I had a serious look around- and decided that we would enter at different time; he would talk to Dorian first, then come out to speak with me. I would enter inside the house a few minuets Basil, but make myself as unnoticeable as I could.

When the cabbie called stopped, we got out and looked up at the large establishment. Voices and music was audible from the outside, and lights flickered.

'I'll be seeing you.' I said to Basil in a undertone, making my way to the door, but he grabbed my arm, his eyes panicked and wild.

'Holmes, what if Dorian tried to-' He stated hysterically.

I cut him off with a kiss. He tasted as ever, but a bitterness underlayed the sweetness. 'I would never, ever, let him hurt you.' I swore. 'He will not live to see morning if he does.'

Basil smiled and opened his mouth to speak. 'Holmes, I have to-'

I press a finger to his lips. 'Sh Basil. We will survive this night and may more. What ever you have to say can wait until our triumphant return with your painting.'

He sighed, like he was relieved. 'Very well.' I noticed he was shaking.

'Basil, are you alright?'

'Right as rain.' He smiled tiredly.

'As much as I love when you say that, and I'd rather that you kept saying it, to be honest, don't lie to me.'

The smile dropped. 'I am- nervous- about meeting Dorian. We have not spoken much in past months. What if I ruin our chances to get the painting?'

'You are quite the simpleton sometimes, Basil.' I laid both hands on his shoulders an look him straight in the eyes. 'If I believed you were at risk to ruin our chances, I wouldn't have let you come. You are not only here, but are speaking with the man we are about to take from. You will be fine.'

Basil took a few deep breaths while nodding. 'Thank you Holmes.' He frowned. 'I think.'

Chuckling, I kissed him one final time and moved to the door. Basil snuck around the corner of the house to wait until he could enter and I placed my mask over my face. I took a deep breath, and all of Sherlock Holmes dissipated, replaced with someone else entirely. I no longer walked the same, I now wrote with my left hand and could no longer play the violin. I spoke with a slight French accent and used only the most fashionable words. Beauty and art were my life's passions, and I found the silver lining in everything. I would respond to the name Gui Comeau, I knew nothing of detective work and was as pious as they came.

But, with all my changes, I still found Basil to be at my foremost thoughts. With all my changes, I still loved him.


	12. Chapter 12 In which questions are asked

Okay, here's another chapter. It's almost over now for real. I've corrected a bunch of chapters, so if you get a junk load of emails, sorry 'bout that. Credit to the authors of the books and such.

Basil

The entire first floor of the house was a riot of color, sound and alcoholic drinks. The smell of opium was strong, though I knew the doors to the den were shut, for the moment at least. My vision seemed to swim, until I realized that it was every one else that was swaying. The party had barely started, and I doubt there was a single sober person left.

Most of the guests were on the dance floor, either participating in the rather simple dance- so even the drunks could do it- or talking around the edge. The ten piece band was playing a slow- paced song, and the dance was out of tempo, but I doubt anyone noticed, or cared. Everyone had a drink in hand, and if someone didn't, a few hired waitresses passed with more full glasses.

I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments as I tried to get my bearings. Quite involuntary, I glanced up at the empty space where Dorian's portrait had hung. It was empty now; I had kept a futile hope that maybe Dorian had decided to put it back up. I tore my eyes away from the blank wood and tried to merge with the crowd. A drink was swiftly placed in my hand, something I would keep as a prop only. As much as I wanted to enjoy myself, I did have a job to do.

A voice shouted my name from somewhere to my left. I could see nothing through the mass of bodies that surrounded me. Simply trying to walk through the crowd was painful; you'd take a step and be pushed into someone else, or your foot would be trod on. At one point I was sure I got kicked in the ribs, though I'm postive that was quite impossible. Eventually, a hand grabbed my elbow. I turned to find an old acquaintance, Lady Emilia Nuthford. A regular of Lady Agatha's balls and diners, she had had a rather loud and obvious carrying on with tonight's host. It had apparently been a one- night affair, but she had pinned after Dorian for weeks. It was quite pathetic, though Emilia herself was harmless.

'Basil! I haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been? There have been rumours that you were in Paris!' She shouted the whole thing. Lady Nuthford was known for her loud and emotional speech- she would have been shouting even if the band made it impossible to hear otherwise.

'I have been here, in London, working.' I started quickly, the mention of Paris giving me an idea. 'But I am off to Paris for, oh, six months or so.'

'What ever for?' Emilia yelled, 'Your work in London is magnificent.'

'A different perspective.' I hoped Dorian would make his appearance soon. I had the perfect excuse now. 'I've rented a studio there and I leave tomorrow.'

'Oh my! How exciting!' My acquaintance saw someone over my shoulder and waved them over. 'Helena! Listen to this! Basil is off to Paris!'

Helena, a younger woman I didn't know, came over. 'My my! Is this Basil Hallward? I simply must inform Lady Victoria you are here! She has been asking around for news of you- well, for days! It was if you vanished, Mr. Hallward.'

'I suppose I had.' I murmured to myself. I had spoken to no one over the past couple of days, save Holmes.

'Basil Hallward! Where on Earth have you been?' Lady Victoria chided as she bustled over, her dress wide enough to clear a three- foot space around her. The fabric of her dress and mask matched; light green with white accents. 'I have been searching for you!'

I kissed her hand and bowed slightly. 'I must confess I was in London, but I was not in my usual haunts, so to speak.'

She laughed, placing the hand that wasn't holding a champagne flute on her chest. 'Oh Basil dearest. But what's this I hear about Paris?'

'Oh yes!' I had almost forgotten my lie already. 'I am moving to Paris for six months or so- my style had begun stale and I wish to paint new landscapes.'

'But I loved your works of London- especially that one of Dorian.' She frowned. 'What ever became of that portrait?'

'I have been wondering that myself. I do think-' I stopped as I felt a hand clap on my shoulder.

'Basil! I am so glad you came!' It was the party's host himself, Dorian Gray. My heart sped up ever so slightly as I saw him, and the spot where his hand made contact with my body went numb. He was dressed in the finest of suits, though his vizard was simple, plain black velvet that covered his face only around his eyes. His hair shone, his skin glowed and his eyes were as blue as the day I had first painted him. It was impossible to think he was 35.

'Dorian!' I did my best to sound enthusiastic about it. In truth, I was nervous to the point where if I had something to drink, I would be sick. 'Happy birthday!'

He smiled, a rapid flash of straight, white teeth, and my heart started beating even faster. 'Thank you my dear friend! Now what was that about my portrait?'

'I'm off to Paris for half a year, and it would mean the world to me if I could bring it along.' I sounded as innocent as I could.

The smile slid off Dorian's face, turning from pleased and excited to a furious rage for half a moment. The smile returned, though it was slightly guarded. 'Whatever for?'

I gestured vaguely in front of my face. 'Inspiration. An artist such as I is nothing without new ideas, Dorian.'

People dancing nearby began to clamor for the birthday boy. 'Well, I'm sorry Basil, but I can't.' A dancer grabbed Dorian's hand and pulled him to the center of the dance. 'It's simply too precious to me!' He shouted over the music, 'I won't let it out of the house!'

So it was in the house then? 'Could I see it at least?' I cried back, but my question was lost in the shouts and whoops of the dancers.

Angrily, I threw back my drink. Who did Dorian think he was? It was mine, I had painted it! I certainly had the right. A full glass replaced my empty one, almost by magic.

'Well, perhaps you should ask him later Basil.' Lady Victoria suggested, and I started slightly. I had forgotten she was still here. When Dorian and I had been talking, it seemed to me we were the only two people in the room. 'You know how compliant he is after a few drinks.' She winked, and I gagged. Unfortunately, I had been downing the second drink, and I ended up coughing most of the drink up on Victoria. I apologized profusely, but I found it quite comical, the way she was standing there, sputtering, though too shocked to really say anything. I made my leave by feinting the need for another drink, and made my way to the bar, shoving my hands in my pockets and hunching my shoulders to ward off any further conversation. I frowned when my fingers brushed something already in my jacket's left pocket. Had Dorian placed something in there without my noticing? I pulled out the offending object and held it up for inspection. Shreded tobacco? Ah, of course! This was the weed I had found that smelt like Holmes did. Grinning like a fool, I meant to go replace it back in my jacket when I was bumped from behind. The tobacco fell from my hand and onto the floor, where it was immediately swept up in the wake of people's feet. There was still some left in my jacket, though I lamented to loose even that small amount. Shaking my head, I continued on my quest to find the bar.

The small area reserved for liquor and the like was rather easy to find; one simply had to follow the stream of drunks. There were at least four men and a woman behind the wooden counter of the bar all making, pouring and serving drinks to the patrons. I sat down on one of the stools- they were all open, most likely, because the guests who were this close to the bar wouldn't be able to sit down without fall off- and tapped the wood of the bar twice with my fist. A tall, thin bartender, who could have been no more than 20, answered my call.

'What's your poison?' She asked. Her hair was bound back into one long, impressive braid. 'We got gin, triple-sec, brandy, whiskey, wine, champagne, rum, ale and a bit of absinthe somewhere.'

'Give me two double rums.' I muttered, 'No ice.'

The bartender smiled at me. 'Two double rums coming right up!' She bend down and I could here bottles clinking under the bar where she was rummaging around. When she stood, a full bottle of dark rum and a small glass was in her hand. 'Rough day?' She asked as she poured the alcohol into small tumblers.

I shrugged. 'You could say that.' I frowned as I thought about it. 'Well, actually, no you couldn't say that. My day was fantastic up until five minutes ago.' I drank the shots in one fell swoop and planted the glasses back on the bar top with a thud. 'Another.'

The girl raised her eyebrow, but uncorked the bottle to fill my requested. 'Was it really so terrible?'

My answer was to throw back the rums and demand a third round.

'That must be bad then.' She sympathized. 'Can you do anything to fix it?'

I paused, the edge of one of the glasses against my lips. 'I suppose I could.' I stood, almost falling into the bar as I did, and slammed down the glass unfinished. 'I do believe I will!' Smiling sloppily, I grabbed the bartender's hand and kissed it. 'Thank you for the idea!'

She blushed and drew her hand to her chest. 'No problem. Good luck.'

I rushed off, fueled by drunken courage. I wasn't exactly sure what I would do or say to Dorian when I found him, but I still had a moment or two to figure it out while I looked. I asked around, and though everyone had seen him, no one knew where he went. It was nearly midnight, four hours later, when I caught sight of Mr. Gray for any length of time. I had been more or less looking for the whole time, though some of my acquaintances called me over to talk me about where I'd been and where I'm going. I managed to escape most of the time before the conversation got too deep, but once or twice, I had a lengthy chat. Dorian had been hiding out in a separate room and I had wandered into the smoking den, partly by accident, drawn in by the silence and the chairs. Dorian was laying down on a chaise-lounge, three female draped over him like blankets, a pipe clamped between his teeth.

'Dorian!' I cried happily when I found him. He looked up, his eyes glassed over, mouth slack. I had no doubt now what the pipe was filled with. When I saw that one of the girls was slowly unbuttoning Dorian's shirt, I stopped short. 'Oh, pardon me.'

'No no Basil.' His voice was slurred, more so than mine, and slow. He sat up and brushed off the women. I hadn't noticed before, but none of them were fully dressed. 'What is it?'

'Can we-' I hesitated, waiting for the rush from seeing Dorian's partly naked chest to settle. 'Can we talk?'

'Oh yes, of course Basil.' He may have tried to sound enthusiastic, but it came out sounding like he quite the opposite. 'Let's go upstairs.'

Dorian stood and walked up to the second floor balcony. The noise of the crowd wasn't as loud, neither was it as hot. I gazed down into the mass of people and saw at least three people passed out on the floor.

'So what did you want to talk about Basil?' He asked quietly.

My heart was hammering again, and I felt some effects of being in the den, even for that short amount of time. 'Dorian, that painting, the one I painted of you, is my greatest work.' I did my best to explain what I wanted calmly and carefully, but instead it came out as if I was begging. 'I am only asking to borrow it, for six months only, please.'

I faced my old friend and found him leaning back on the banister, head cocked and a queer look in his eyes as he watched me. 'Basil,' He asked, 'Have I ever told you how thankful I am that you paint that picture of me?'

Baffled, I thanked him. 'I do appreciate that, but I don't think now's the time. Can I borrow the painting?' I was groveling now, and I knew it. 'Please Dorian.'

Dorian unlatched himself from the railing and came to stand directly in front of me, no more than a foot away. He moved so close, I ended up backing myself into a small bench, as he draped both hands over my shoulders. 'But Basil,' He murmured, his words startlingly clear and precise, 'I have to thank you properly for such a great gift.'

One of his hands drifted to lay flat against my chest and I lost all focus. 'Honestly Dorian, there's no need.'

His eyes fluttered back and forth between my eyes and my lips. His head dipped closer to mine, and both of our breaths caught. His water-blue eyes flashed to mine one past time before he closed the gap.

The first kiss was so light and quick, a mere grazing of our lips, I wasn't even sure it happened. The second one was longer, and filled with intent. The electric shocks I was getting from where Dorian's skin touched mine paralyzed me. It was my lack of response that made Dorian move back, his hands by his sides again. I let him stand there, waiting, for half a second before I rushed back to his embrace. He let me explore his mouth, and I did so as well as I was able. I was clumsy from the drinks, and the sheer nervousness and excitement of my many late night fantasies coming to life. I ran my tongue over his teeth, sliding my hands up his shirt. Dorian let my hands run up his chest before pushing me down into the beach. I sat there numbly as Dorian looked down on me and started to unbutton his pants.

And I just gazed back up at him and let it happen.

Holmes

Basil hadn't been lying when he described the happenings at Mr. Gray's parties. All of the things Basil had told me about, and more, I had seen at least once over the course of the evening. I had even caught sight of Basil a few times, but he didn't seem to notice me.

I spoke with as many people as I could without daring attention to myself, and after a dozen or so conversations, I began to draw a trend. The women all declared their high opinion of Dorian Gray, or in a wistful way that spoke of late-night affairs, while the men spoke of him with a twisted snarl on their lips. Rather, most of the men spoke of Dorian with a twisted snarl. Some of the menfolk had the same forlorn expression as the women did, though they had nothing good to say about the birthday boy.

One women, a Mrs. Fairfax, who'd must have been drinking non-stop since before she arrived, told me a rather unfortunate story of a young actress named Sybil Vane. I had heard the name before, read it somewhere in the paper no doubt, but the lady told a different story from the one I had read.

She first told the simple story of a girl committing suicide, for no particular reason at all. When she hinted that there was more to the story, I pressed her, using flattery to the best of my ability, until she gave me the rest of the facts she had.

'I do say, you are most charming Mr. Comeau,' She giggled, pawing my shoulder, 'And if you are not opposed to listening to this old bird for much longer, I'll tell you everything I know.' She cleared her throat, and snapped her fingers, a full glass taking place of the empty one she had, and commenced her story. 'First off, do you know of any of the rumors surrounding our gracious host?' I confessed that I did not. 'Well, then you ask around some more when I'm done. The mysteries are most intriguing, and almost always true. I simply cannot fathom how Mr. Gray has kept his face for so long.' Intriguing. Perhaps there was more to this young-looking man then his extravagant parties. 'Any who, Ms. Vane and Mr. Gray were betrothed. Bet you didn't read anything about that in the papers, did you?' She waggled her index finger at me (do not ask me how for I simple have not a clue how she could have done such a dexterous motion in her state), her eyes so unfocused it was quite comical.

'You are quite right Madame, I did not.' My French accent was only being played up for everyone else that walked by: the lady would remember nothing of this night.

'Yes, well, it's true. It was not widely known, as Mr. Gray only told his closest friends.' She received my pointed look with good grace. 'Yes, yes. I know. You are wondering how I know. Well, my nephew's cousin's uncle's aunt's son is the bother of the late Sybil Vane. Jim's never been the same since.'

Hm. That was certainly interesting news. 'Well, if Mr. Gray had nothing to do with Ms. Vane's death, then why is this information so scandalous?'

The lady tapped the side of her nose twice. She nearly poked herself in the eye instead. 'Quite right, Sir, quite right. But, I have inside information that says Mr. Gray broke off the engagement the night she killed herself.'

That sounded like a young girl who thought she was in love, and the love not returned. A flash of dark among the light of the second floor caught my attention, and I looked up. Two men were there, one of them Basil. I assumed the other was Dorian Gray himself, and I smiled. The painter was making his move. Now, how to get away from Lady Fairfax...

I only had to ponder my decision for a few moments, as the Lady called for another drink, and promptly passed out. I was felt standing there, rather awkwardly, until someone told me in passing that she did that every party and there were servants to help her. Feeling like I had just received a rather fortunate stroke of luck, I moved to a better vantage point of the balcony.

That's when I noticed the two men were much closer then they ought to be for a simple conversation. Basil's weight shifted from one foot to the other, a sign he probably didn't even noticed himself that told me he was was as if I had missed the climax of the story; I had been watching, but when I blinked, the crime was commuted in that half-second moment.

And then Basil Hallward shoved his tongue down Dorian Gray throat.

Stars of hot white clouded my vision, and when they disappeared, I could see nothin but red; I was blinded by rage. There were no words to explain my fury, and I found that I wasn't sure who I was exactly furious with. Myself? Dorian? Basil? It had seemed impossible a few hours ago that I could ever be this angry with the artist. But now I felt more anger then I had ever felt in my life. I barged through the crowd, wanting someone to retaliate and start a fight with me; I was all too willing. The guests, though, were all too placid, if not calm, from whatever had been circulating around the room. Perhaps Huxley might grant me a match outside the ring, where rules were nonexistent, but even he would find fighting me in the situation I was in beyond foolish. He lost to me even when I was having an off day. I barely paused to think how my anger would sharpen my blows.

A rush of cold air hit my face. I hadn't noticed I had gotten outside. I turned down the alley Basil and I had discussed our plan of attack hours before.

'I thought you loved me!' I roared, smashing my hand against the bricks. The edges caught my skin and tore it open, leaving a long strip of blood. I did it again, with more force. The pain wasn't distracting so much as the forced I exerted to punch was liberating. I could feel my fury abating, but for how long? Would it return with a vengeance the next time I saw that bastard? I slammed my fists a third time against the wall of the alley,howling wordlessly, and felt as if the bricks were closing in on me slightly. My chest constricted and a single declaration escaped my lips, something I never thought I would, or could, say.

'I thought I loved you!' I sobbed.


	13. Chapter 13 In which Basil is terrified

Sorry if the formating is all weird. My computer is doing odd things to my work. Third last chapter! Credit is due to... Blah, you guys get it by now.

Basil

A shuttering pain woke me cloud nine, and with it the desire to break down and cry. I had done nothing to warrant such pain; I was still sitting up in my chair, and had no possessed a conscious thought for the last few minutes or so. I blinked and the pain and desire went.

'I wonder what that's about.' I mused aloud.

'What's what about dearie?' A voice to my left asked.

I turned and found a large, quite over make-upped lady leaning against the wall, smoking.

'Ah, nothing.' I murmured. Looking around, I found I was rather disoriented. This was certainly not my house, nor was it Holmes'. I was on the second floor of a well to do home, that was clear, but why was there such noise? A few feet from me was a banister, but I couldn't see what was beyond it. My head began to throb in time to my heartbeat.

I threw a quick glance at the lady, and she smiled at me. I tried to look away, but she coughed and gestured pointedly. I glanced down, and turned bright red with embarrassment. I did up my pants and apologized.

'It's of no matter.' She drawled. 'Yours has not been the first heart he has ensnared.'

'Ah, right.' I replied, very much confused. I tried to think of whom she was talking about, but my entire mind was blank.

'Yes, Mr. Gray has many hearts he could claim to have broken.' She continued, drawing out her vowels. 'Let's hope there's no permanent mark, hmmm?'

The world cracked and shifted. Dorian Gray- of course it was his party. But what had we done? I closed my eyes against the sights that had suddenly become suffocating. My senses seem to be attacking me: my sights was too sharp, I could hear everything too loudly, the fabric of my shirt was painfully itchy, my mouth tasted like ash and the smells that were assaulting my nose were making me sick. The strange blankness that had covered me before was gone, and I looked around. There was nobody else up here and far less people down below. I remembered the party, and what I was supposed to be doing. Holmes, I had to find Holmes, if for no other reason then to rid myself of the taste of Dorian.

'Excuse me.' I muttered to the woman, and fled.

I got as far as the railing before I was too overcome to keep walking. I leaned against it, ready to be sick.

'Don't ever touch that!' A voice snarled.

I snapped to attention and looked around for the speaker. He had another boy's hair in hand and was jerking the poor fellow's head back alarmingly far. Yelling out his name, I ran as fast as I could downstairs. More and more people got pushed out of my way, or stepped over, the closer I got, ignoring their grumbles of protest.

I was nearly there when someone grabbed my arm. Harry. I hadn't seen him at the party earlier, though I had meant to. We hadn't spoken since he had told me to come. His demeanor was quite different: his eyes shone with pride and a slight touch of jealousy, and he leaned against a pillar with casual arrogance. He reminded me of a proud father.

'Let him be Basil.' He spoken in the usual way, and I wondered if he had had anything to drink. Knowing Harry, he wouldn't drink just so he could remember everything that had gone on. 'He's young.'

I felt my emotions snap, and with all the toll they had take , I lashed out. 'That may be. But he was never cruel.' I spat. 'Not until he met you.' I threw off his arm and kept walking towards Dorian. He had let go of the boy, in a manner of speaking. They were now connected at the lips. I stalked my way over to them, and grabbed the scarf that was wrapped around the boy's neck.

'That's mine!' I growled before stomping off.

I got to the umbrella stand in front of the door before my stomach rebelled. Luckily there weren't too many people who were coherent that saw, though one lady gave me a thumbs-up as if she approved of my choice.

I stood, whipping my mouth. The overbearing feeling from my senses was gone, but now I felt dizzier than ever. Quick taps, those made from shoes on the polished wood floor, singled to me that someone was close.

'Do you require assistance Sir?' Victor asked.

I turned to face Dorian's butler. Victor was the sort of fellow I liked, and would have been good friends with if our situation had been different. He always treated me slightly less stiffly then Harry, and in turn, I had conversations outside of the usual ones butlers had.

'No, Victor. I'm alright.' I peered closer at the manservant. He had horrid circles under his eyes, his posture was slipping and his mannerisms were ungraceful. 'The question should be rather, are you alright Victor?'

He smiled slightly and inclined his head. 'Mr. Gray has changed. It is hard to know when exactly he will be on his best behavior or not.'

I suddenly noticed the wonderful opportunity that had presented its self to me: being a manservant, Victor would know what room the painting was in.

'Say, Victor, would you happen to know what happened to my painting? I know Dorian had put it away, but where?'

The butler bowed slightly. 'I am afraid to say that I cannot say. Though I know that Mr. Gray goes into the old classroom for long times. He took from me the key to the room.'

'Indeed.' I murmured. I had a sense now as to where it could be, and found the next best course of action would be to inform Sherlock with my new knowledge.

How to leave though. Victor would be offended if I simply walked off. A hurried excuse would be of no help at all either. Perhaps I could build up to something...

'Say, Victor, this may be the last time we will speak for a few months.'

He nodded. 'I heard. Off to France, if I'm not mistaken, Sir. Have a good time there.'

I thanked him, ready to slip off when I could. Fortunately, the nature of the party helped me get out. A loud crash and some loud voices, louder then the ambient noise, filtered through the crowd.

'Pardon me Mr. Hallward.' Victor sighed. 'I'd imagine that was one of the antiques.'

He bowed and slipped off into the thinning mass of people. I left the other way, out the door. At first, I was fine. Then the grain on the wood floors started to move and my head started to pound. I concentrated on getting out the door, away from this oppressing heat and smell. Coughing, I stepped outside, and was granted a shove on the back that sent me sprawling down the steps. A rambunctious burst of laughter came from behind me. I suppose it was the man that pushed me.

'Need a little 'elp gov'na?' He snorted.

I managed to stand on my own and ignored him. Insulting him would have just resulted in more laughter for them; I'd say my speech was slurred enough for them to find it funny.

I stumbled off, heading towards the ally. I had to navigate my way down it using my hand- it was dark enough to make any one feel fear.

I wandered down the alley. I was nearly at the end when somethings caught my attention. There was a patch of wall that shimmered in the light. Stumbling over, I touched the patch. Something coated my fingers. I brought my hand closer to my face and peered at the sticky liquid. Blood? I looked around, but there was no one else here, surprisingly. I would have thought an ally so close to a party like this would be filled with drunkards sleeping off the effects of the poison, or at least filled with the stench of sick. A random splotch of blood didn't fit in my mind, not with an empty ally, so the thought slid from my mind. It was cool as well, and I sighed contently as I sunk down against the end wall. I felt as if I could just sleep here, undisturbed by anyone, for days. It was certainly dark. I blinked, trying to find light. It hadn't been so dark at the opening before. The shadow moved and shaped itself into Holmes.

'Holmes!' I cried. I hoped the guilt wasn't apparent in my voice. 'I have it! I know where the painting is!'

He drifted down the ally like a wraith, moving from shadow to shadow. Something was not right here.

He stopped directly in front of me, so that he was all I could see. He was poised above me and the bit of sky that was visible around him made the illusion he was an avenging angel; blood was dried on his knuckles, his mouth set in a bitter grimace and the moon gave him a silver halo. Suddenly I was terrified. I peered closer at the detective. I could smell the booze and drugs that clung around him like a poisonous cloud; he was worse off then I was. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were glasses over. The mask I had made was replaced by something worse; the angle he was standing over me at threw shadows onto his face in horrifying relief. They made him look like a monster.

'Holmes?' I asked carefully. 'Are you alright?'

'Did you do this,' He breathed, 'To get back to me?' His voice was dead, completely void of any and every emotion.

'Holmes, what are you talking about?' I tried not to think about it, but I could feel the shame and self-hatred building up. It felt surreal. How could I have done that?

'I could have sworn you said I was forgiven.' He continued as if I hadn't spoken. 'Do you hate me Basil? I understand if you do.'

Carefully, as if I was dealing with an injured beast, I stood. 'Holmes...'

Like he was waking from a nightmare, he jerked away. 'Don't. Touch. Me.' He snarled. He wasn't looking directly at me.

I hadn't been about to, but I considered myself warned. 'What happened?'

He seemed to be holding back his fury. 'You have to ask?'

All my attempts at bluffing crumbled. 'I am sorry, Holmes, but-'

'Don't deny it.' I was more terrified by these emotionless accusations then by Holmes yelling. 'I saw you.'

It was a verbal punch to the gut. I hadn't thought about the possibility of being seen, at least, not by Holmes.

Suddenly, his eyes, which had been focused on the shadows in the bottom corner of the ally, flicked up and locked on mine. 'You haven't answered my question.' He snarled.

I tried to step back, but the wall was there to stop me. I was effectively trapped. The only way out was by Holmes, but I wasn't leaving unless he was unconscious or dead, and I couldn't do that to him. -You couldn't hurt him?- A voice laughed in my head. -Haven't you ready do that?-

'Answer me!' He roared. The force of his voice sent shudders through me and I shut my eyes.

'No, Holmes, I don't hate you.' I whispered, trembling. Quite the opposite, I thought. The drinks were beginning to wear off, and I hoped the same was for Holmes.

'Then how could you do this to me?' He howled. I thought he had gone over the edge; I had the unexpected thought that I wouldn't leave this ally alive. I wasn't angry though. I understood that it was poetic justice, or irony. Whatever it was, I knew I deserved it. It seemed like I mercilessly ripped out this man's heart, I wasn't a fool. No amount of apologizing could make him forgive me that much was obvious. I doubt I would ever have my trust regained in him. Perhaps this was the way it was supposeto end; we weren't meant to be. But the thought of leaving Holmes tore me up inside. Every moment we had spent together was now a part of me, and I couldn't take that away no more then I could stop being an artist. I loved Sherlock Holmes. There was no possible way now, though, that I could prove that to the detective.

'Holmes, please.' I begged. I had maybe one shot at this. If I could make in think for one single moment that I did love him, we still had a chance at fixing things. 'Please forgive me. I- I am the worst sort of person, and I will never forgive myself. If you never want to see me again, I understand, but please. Understand that I do love you. And what I did- I should rot in Hell for.' He hadn't moved. He was still there, motionless in front of me, his gaze locked with mine. I was getting nowhere. 'Please.' I breathed. 'I am sorry.'

Then, with a cry, Holmes lurched forward, hand balled in a fist. Aimed right at me.

Holmes

It was the simplicity of his plea that broke me. I had been expecting a load of lies, a feeble attempt at righting the wrong, like with the scum I dealt with usually. I don't know why I had been expecting lies; this was Basil, no some criminal. Wonderful, amazing Basil- who just shredded my heart to pieces.

My fist landed inches from Basil's face. I heard his breath catch as it hit the bricks. A shock of pain ran up my arm, but I set it aside. A few broken knuckles could be dealt with later.

'Forgive you?' I whispered bitterly. 'I- I'm not sure how much choice I have Basil.'

He said nothing in return, as I had been expecting him to. It was possible he had passed out - the both of us were quite warped by drink and such. Perhaps neither of us would remember this in the morning.

'Holmes?' His voice shook, but I couldn't say with what. 'Why do you have to forgive me?'

'I love you.' I stated simply. 'If I didn't forgive you, I would be the same as hating you. I just... Couldn't bare that.'

'You love me?' He asked. I hoped my confession wasn't one-sided. Dear God, I couldn't bear life if it was. There simply wouldn't be a point to life. My thoughts may have seemed extreme, but I momentarily attributed it to drinks. Then I made a mental check and found I wasn't nearly as drunk as I had been.

Basil meant that much to me.

'Yes, I do.' I said. 'And I think I should be apologizing here. I had absolutely no right to badger you about what Mr. Gray did. I heard tales from other guest. I'd say you had little choice in the matter.'

Basil nodded. 'I think we both have apologizing to do. But you must know something.'

My heart stopped. Basil brushed aside my arm and walked past me. Whatever he was about to say made him confident. He stepped with purpose and resolve. Was he about to say he didn't love me in return? That he was truly in love with Dorian Gray? Watson would have a fit if that were true; I would undoubtedly drown myself in cocaine.

'Holmes.' He started, turning to face me. I loved he way he said my name. I loved the way his eyes shone in the faint light. Hell, I loved everything about him. 'The thing I was trying to tell you before hand-' He stopped and took a deep breath. 'I can't stand the minutes apart. When I see your face, it's the best part of my day. The smell that comes off your skin is my drug. I'd trade my life for yours, if necessary. I'd do something to warrant a lecture from you, just to hear your voice. If I could do only one thing for the rest of eternity, it would be to have your lips against mine.'

It wouldn't register in my mind. What was he telling me?

'Holmes, I love you with all and every part of me.' He smiled, and the last threads of my anger disappeared.

'How had I ever doubted you?' I whispered. 'I told you my deductive powers were rendered useless in your presence.'

We both started laughing. It wasn't funny, not in the slightest, but it felt as if we just met after a long absence. I enfolded him into my arms and we sunk down to the cobblestones, leaning against the bricks. All the distrust that had come between us vanished when our lips touched. It was a simple, quick touch, but I felt myself falling for the artist all over again.

Basil, resting his head again my shoulder, asked 'Holmes, what should I do about the painting?'

I pondered that for a moment. 'I suppose you could go find out more from Mr. Gray, or go look for it yourself.'

'I do want it back.' Agreed Basil, 'I'll go now, before the house is shut.' He stood, but was held back by my hand that was locked with his. 'I'll only be a moment. I'm sure Dorian is passed out somewhere by now. I'll be fine Holmes.'

I reluctantly released his hand. 'Basil, please be careful.'

Basil nodded, but a pained looked crossed his face. He fled the ally before I could ask him what was wrong.

My hand buzzed with the recent contact with Basil and my jacket was engulfed by the scent of him. I sat for a moment, wrapped in this different kind of high, when, all of a sudden, I was consumed by a burning desire for the man to whom I had pledged my heart.

'Come back to me.' I whispered, though it was impossible he could hear me now. 'Come back Basil.'

He didn't come back.


	14. Chapter 14 In which death comes

**Second last chapter! The credit is due to the authors! Rate and Review, please!**

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><p>Basil<p>

As I crept from the alley, the ominous premonitions I'd been having vanished. Instead, they were replaced with a disturbing sense of calm. Dismissing the feelings as relief that Holmes wasn't overly upset, I steeled my resolve to face Dorian.

Again.

The men who had laughed at me were gone, but Victor had taken their place. I suppose he was there to assure the more intoxicated of guests weren't falling down the steps and breaking something. Dorian had survived many things, but a lawsuit wasn't one of them... Yet.

"Hello again Mr. Hallward." Victor greeted. "I thought you had left."

I chuckled. "I did, but I forgot something rather... Important. I returned to get it."

He bowed and opened the doors. "Very good Sir."

"Oh, and Victor," I added as an afterthought, "do you mind telling anyone that asks that I've gone off to France for a few months? Be sure to tell this story to anyone who asks." Now I could be gone with Holmes for a few months and my friends and clients would be none the wiser.

"Of course not Sir."

"I want no-one to know that I'm in London. Tell them whatever lie you have to."

"Will do Sir."

Thanking him, I re-entered Dorian home. The calm was wearing off. The house was mostly empty now. The few souls who remained were unconscious in some shape or form, their bodies strewn about the furniture in awkward positions. I tip toed around them to the second floor. I figured Dorian would be in his chambers by now, if not prowling around the house, looking for people to violate. It may have shocked me when I first met the boy to think he would do such things, but by now, there was next to nothing he could have done to surprise me.

Other footsteps echoed in the hall and I followed them. The noise led me to a room I had never been in. I moved to open the door, but it swung open before I could reach the handle.

I jumped back in alarm, but was calmed slightly when it was simply a well-off guest. The door opened to a bedroom I had never seen before. Actually, I may have recognized the place if there hadn't been clothes flung about or an older woman snoring on the bed.

The drunk stumbled past me, not even reaching the stairs before he dropped to the floor. I shook my head at the man, before I remembered that I had had my fair share of alcohol myself. The buzz had completely worn off in the midst of the argument with Holmes I suppose.

I crept away from the man and continued down the hall. The smell of the party had vanished, but visual reminders were everywhere; a lost bowtie, a left show, a small pile of sick. I hoped Victor wouldn't have to deal with this all on his own, but it would be doubtful that Dorian would ever help. I sighed as I tried the next door. It was unlocked, but it was void of Dorian.

After trying another three doors, I gave up. I had already walked in on a party of five having an orgy, and wanted no more of it.

"There must be half of London still in this house." I grumbled, "So where's Dorian?"

"You called?"

I spun around and found the man I had been seeking coming towards me from the door way of a room at the end of the hall, stopping a few feet from me in the middle of the hall. His hair and clothes were casually mussed, as if he had just gotten out from bed. Though, knowing Dorian, he had been in bed, thought not because he had been sleeping. He was still drinking, though instead of gin, he had a flute of champagne.

How the fellow wasn't on the floor drunk, I'll never know.

"Ah, yes." I smiled slightly, but I felt absolutely no nervousness. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about-"

"I thought you went home." Dorian interrupted smoothly. There was not a single letter was slurred when he spoke, yet I still felt as if the boy was well past drunk.

"No, I, ah, just went for a walk." I flashed another grin. "Do you mind if we speak for a moment, old friend?"

Dorian reclined against the wall beside him and took a final swig of his drink. "About what?"

"The painting!" I sighed. "Dorian, you must let me-"

"Let you what?" He interrupted again.

I was beginning to lose patience with the boy. I itched to be back with Holmes. I couldn't wait for this whole case to be over and done with. And, in this moment, I couldn't remember for the life of me, why I had ever wanted my painting back in the first place.

"Please Dorian. You and I both know I want my painting back. Borrow it to me for a little while, a few months, and I'll give it back in one piece. You never speak of it anymore, it's not on display; I don't even know why you keep it."

Dorian flinched as I spoke the last few words. He had been looking at the floor, but as soon as I finished my speech, he looked up at me, a horrid look in his eyes. There was a madness to them that was familiar. I had seen the look in Holmes' eyes not an hour before. It was as if Dorian was trapped and knew but one-way out.

He set the flute down on an end table and came closer to me. "Do you want to know why, dear friend," His voice was dripping with spite and malice, but not without complete and udder despair, "Why I can never display that picture again?"

I was shocked. "'Never display...?'" I repeated, horrified. "Dorian, what have you done to my picture?"

"What have I done?" He burst out laughing, the madness edging the noise.

I stood, waiting for the boy's madness to pass. I felt the shivers coming back, and I couldn't move.

"I hardly think I'm to blame in this Basil." He spat, as if he had never started to laugh. "In fact, I do think this whole thing is your fault."

"My fault?" I snorted. "Come now Dorian, you've had much too much to drink. You'd best be off to bed."

I placed my hands on his shoulders to steer him back to his bed room. "Come along."

"No!" He growled.

He grabbed both my wrists and held me fast. "I will show you why my portrait must be hidden, dear Basil." He pulled at my wrists, and I could knew I wouldn't be able to pulled myself from his grasp alive. "You come along."

He dropped my wrists, but I didn't dare flee; a drunk Dorian was known to make rash decisions, and I feared to know how his new-found madness was effecting him. He pushed me from behind to end of the hall to the room he had exited from earlier. The door was plain, yet Dorian pulled a key from under his shirt. The door unlock with a click that echoed around and around my head. I felt faint.

"Here we are, Basil. This is where I've been keeping your picture of me for all these years." Dorian breathed in my ear, and shoved me into the room.

I could see little, as there were no lights or windows. A match flared up behind me as Dorian lit a candle. I could now see that we were in an old classroom, the desks and shelves covered in dust.

"Dorian," I coughed, "Why is your painting in here?"

The boy strutted to the middle of the classroom and faced me. "I couldn't have anyone see the painting, now could I?" He asked, as if it were an obvious fact. "Not with the state that it's in."

"That is the third time you have mentioned that my picture has been damaged." I tired to control my voice, but my anger was building dangerously. "What, exactly, happened to it?"

Dorian stalked forward, and I saw his reflection flash in a broken mirror on my left. "This." He hissed, and swept a sheet off of what I had assumed to be a bookshelf.

But it wasn't a bookshelf- it was my painting.

Or at least, it was a painting with my frame around it.

With a shout, I scrambled backwards from the frame containing the- the thing. I couldn't look at the picture any longer. It was impossible that it was my work.

"Dorian..." I whispered, more fearful than I had ever been in my life. "What have you done?"

My words snapped some thing in the boy. He flipped around and rushed towards me, stopping inches from my face. "My fault? MY FAULT?" He screamed. "You blame this on me, Basil, but how much is really your fault, hm? HOW MUCH?"

"Dorian, " I pleaded. "I honestly have no idea what you are talking about."

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!" He roared, shoving my backwards. I hit a desk, hard, and dropped to the floor, coughing. One of my ribs had given away when I had hit the desk, and I could feel it though my skin. One wrong move and it might puncture my chest.

"Please, Dorian. Explain to me what is my fault." I whispered though coughs. I felt as if I couldn't get enough air- I untied my scarf, but it made no difference. Where was Holmes when I needed him? He would know what to do.

"You pretend as if you don't know." He spat, then came over and knelt down to my level. "Or have you already forgotten what your painting has done to me?"

Warmth was spreading across my jacket. "Dorian, that is not my painting." Black was beginning to eat at the corners of my vision.

"Isn't it?" Dorian snarled. I simply could not figure why he was so upset. My thoughts felt foggy, and my chest was tightening beyond comfort. "Look at the lines Basil, look at the shapes." I had to concentrate to see anything. "Now tell me that isn't your painting of me!"

He was right. It was my picture. Only, my picture hadn't been painted with corruption and sin. My painting had been of Dorian at the height of his innocence, when the boy knew nothing of drink or opium. The monster that was now contained in the frame was vile and heinous, its evil poisoning the air of the room. I forced my gaze from it and focused on breathing instead. I had to stay breathing for Holmes.

"It's hard to look at, isn't it?" Dorian was still talking. It seemed to me that his words burned in my chest, as if he was branding me with his voice. "Haven't you always wondered what someone's soul would look like? Well, here's your chance!" He grabbed my chin in his hand and jerked my face to the picture. "Here is mine Basil!"

The jolt knocked the little air left in me away. "Your... Soul?" I croaked.

"Yes." He hissed. Dorian stood and strode over to the mirror, his back to me. "Remember when Harry asked me if I would trade my soul to be young, and unchanging as your painting of me, and I said yes?"

I couldn't speak, but the memory was fresh in my mind.

"Well, it worked." Dorian picked up a share of the mirror and turned it over in his hands. "What you see in that painting is my soul."

The boy was so intent on the bit of glass that I knew that this moment would be the best to try and escape. I rolled sideways onto my knees and pulled myself up using a chair. I had to get out of this place. The name of the man I loved pounded in my head to the throbbing of my broken rib. Holmes... Holmes... Holmes...

"Dorian," I choked, "You're mad."

I took a step towards the door, holding my scarf against my rib. The pain sent a shock down my side, but I stayed standing. A few more steps, and I would be at the door.

"Basil." Dorian's voice had returned to a conversational tone.

"I'm leaving Dorian." I kept my head forward; nothing besides straight ahead was visible. I took the last step towards the door. "Do what you wish with that abomination."

"Basil!" He repeated.

I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned to face the madman. "What Dorian?"

His reflection in the mirror showed him clenching the shard. Blood was dripping down his trembling hand.

"You're not going anywhere."

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><p><strong>Dorian<strong>- **what the Hel**l did you do- Ahhhh- gehh- **Huff huff huff**- You **bastard**- ehhhhg- _Holmes_- why Dorian- my painting- no- **blood everywhere**- pant pant pant- breath man come on- **ahh ahh ahh**- hrrrg- pain- blood- my neck- _Holmes_- dark **why is it so dark**- so tired- no must stay awake- **he'll save m**e- _Holmes_- **_HOLMES_**- holmes...

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><p>Holmes<p>

It had been almost two hours since he had left. I was still in the alley where we had parted, and I had seen no one enter or exit Mr. Gray's home since Basil had gone in. Not one single light was lit in the place, though I feared going closer to listen for noises. Finally, I gave up. I turned around and walked back to Basil's rooms. It was nearly three and I doubted Watson would want me coming home now, and he would ask too many questions about my broken knuckles then it would be worth for me to ask him to fix them.

I stumbled into the rooms, having passed no one on my walk. It was cold and shadowy without Basil, even after lighting a fire. I collapsed into the chair the artist and I had been using earlier, not knowing how exhausted I was until my feet were off the ground. My hand was swollen past recognition, and my head ached with a hangover. I leaned back in the chair, and thought about Basil. The man should have finished his mission by now, and we hadn't spoken of what to do if it took this long. Basil was smart enough to guess he should come back here though. I smiled at the thought of waking up to his familiar face, with his eyes that lit up when they saw me, and the smile that was only around when I was. I don't ever know if I loved anyone before with the intensity that I loved Basil. Hell, I'm not sure I truly ever loved anyone. Not that it mattered anymore. I had Basil, and that was all that mattered.

I woke the next morning in the chair. My muscles rebelled when I stood, but I managed to stumble over to the bathroom. As I splashed water on my face and neck, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was completely ashen, bruise-like shadows lined the underside of my eyes and my hair stood straight up as if it was stuck that way. I tried to flatten the offending hair, but I forgot that most of my knuckles were broken and ended up just making it worse. My, was I glad that I hadn't gone back to Baker Street; Watson would have given me quite the lecture.

"Perhaps I should go speak with him." I mused aloud, "I haven't seen him in a few days."

I made up my mind and fetched my things to go back to 221B. There was no point in eating, as I doubt my stomach could have taken it, though I did down a few glasses of water. As I was leaving, a piece of paper with my name on it, hidden the pocket of a jacket caught my eye from the closet. Frowning, I open the door of the closet and took out the jacket. The paper- thick stock, off white, made for sketching, produced in Germany- was folded into fourths and tucked away as if the owner of the coat had forgotten about it. I unfolded the paper- and dropped it on the floor as soon as I saw what it contained. I fled the house, leaving the paper on the ground.

It was a sketch of me that Basil had done.

So why hadn't the artist given the sketch to me?

Because the artist wasn't here yet.

"God Damn it man! Let me in!" I shouted at the door, pounding on the wooden barricade.

The door swung open, and a disheveled Watson opened the door.

"Holmes? You look awful! And where have you been?" He ejaculated.

"Never mind that Watson!"

"Is you hand broken?"

"Yes, but that's-"

"What happened?"

"I shall tell you later, but for now-"

"Holmes!"

"Watson!" I shouted. "Please! Is Basil here?"

The doctor looked baffled. "Basil? Not that I know of. Why? Have you chased him away again?"

I didn't bother to finish the conversation, I just ran. Where was he? Could he have left because of last night? I banished the thought with a pained grunt. That was impossible, wasn't it? And yet Watson's words reverberated in my head. "Chased him away again, have you?"

I hailed a cab as soon as I was on the street again, bribing the driver to go as fast as humanly possible. We arrived at Dorian's abode in five minutes flat.

I tossed the coins at the driver and rushed up the steps.

I reached up to bang on the door, but it opened before I could. A small, pinched looked woman had opened the door and gave a shrill scream of surprise when she saw me.

"My good lady, do be quite!" I yelled furiously over her noise.

My anger caught her off guard, and she gave a tut-tut of embarrassment before teetering off.

"Sir?" A man's voice demanded from inside the entranceway. "Do you require something?"

I stepped inside and found the tired butler Basil had been talking to last night. He was looking at me with an exasperated expression. "I want nothing of what you're selling."

"No, I'm not here for that. I'm looking for someone." I explained carefully. My head was buzzing, and I wanted to fall over.

"Ah, that I may be able to help you with." He smiled, as if he knew my plight. There was a pause. "A name would be helpful Sir."

I smiled the best I was able. "Ah yes. His name is Basil Hallward."

The smile from the butler dropped slightly. "Haven't you heard Sir? He left for Paris last night."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"He came to say goodbye to my master and then left." The butler clarified gently.

"That's impossible." I stammered. "I spoke with him last night!"

"All I know is that he left early this morning Sir." The butler corrected his earlier statement. "In fact, I helped him with his luggage not an hour ago."

"No." I shook my head. "No. Basil wouldn't leave me."

"I'm sorry Sir." The butler shrugged.

"Did he seem upset this morning?" I demanded.

"He did Sir." The butler nodded. "Angry, yet also unhappy."

I shut my eyes and Watson's words came back to me. What had I done? I thought Basil had said he would stay with me. Why did he go?

I stumbled off the steps and walked away, not even thanking the butler. It was better for me to know, to be told that Basil didn't love me as he had said, then to hope he still did. There was no other possible explanation of Basil leaving. Once you have eliminated all the other possible explanations the truth, no matter how improbable remains; I had even heard mention of his trip to Paris while I had been at the party.

But it made no sense.

Why would Basil have said all those things, only to leave a few hours later? Something else was going on here; there was a larger game afoot.

Or maybe there wasn't. Maybe it was simply a case where love was lost overnight. It was quite plausible. Very plausible. I sighed and turned myself towards Baker Street, placing my hands in my pockets. My body felt as if it would shatter and I felt as if someone was choking me. I tried ignoring it, but I couldn't. I couldn't stand not having him by my side, not having his scent around, even for this short while. Suddenly, a drop of rain landed on my cheek. I looked up to the sky, but it wasn't raining.

* * *

><p><strong>Did the bit where Basil was dying make sense? I wasn't sure how else to do that. If you have suggestions, tell me!<strong>


	15. End

**LAST CHAPTER! AHHH! Oh, and the '...' is Holmes not talking, stuff in italics is stuff that's written in the paper and the only other person who talks in this is Watson. Credit to Conan Doyle and Wilde! Rate and Reviews are great!**

* * *

><p>"For God's sake man! Get up! You've done nothing but sit in that chair for three days!"<p>

...

"I want you out of this house! Now!"

...

"Holmes, you are trying my patience."

...

"Fine! Rot in that chair, then! See if I care!"

...

* * *

><p>"Holmes..."<p>

...

"Please... It's been three weeks now."

...

"Tell me what happened. That morning when you rushed out of here, looking for Basil. What had happened?"

...

"Speaking Basil, what happened to the fellow?"

...

"Holmes!"

...

"Come back!"

...

"What did I say? Holmes!"

* * *

><p>"Holmes, I have this case for you."<p>

...

"It's... It's Basil's family. They want you to find him."

...

"Please, Holmes. Take a look at it. He's been gone for almost a month and a half now."

...

"Ah, I'll leave it here then."

...

* * *

><p>"Holmes, I know you have been working a little on Basil's case."<p>

...

"Have you made any headway?"

...

"The- the family gave me this for you last night. It's saying they've given up."

...

"They don't want you looking for him anymore."

...

"I'm sorry old boy."

...

* * *

><p>"Er, Holmes..? Have you read the paper this morning?"<p>

...

"Ah, I think you best give me that paper."

...

"Holmes, hand it over."

...

"Holmes! Give me the paper!"

..? '..._Tist found dead in rive_r'?

"... Damn... I was hoping you wouldn't see that..."

! '_Basil Hallward_'?

"I'm truly sorry dear friend."

! '_Dead for month_s'?

"Holmes, please."

! '_Was thought to be in Paris'?_

"Holmes? Come back!"

...'_Was last seen at the home of Dorian Gray_'...?

...

...

**He will pay.**

* * *

><p><strong>It's finally done... I can finally work on other things now... *Sigh*. It's still sad though. So how'd you like it? <strong>


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